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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29376585">A Soldiers' Chorus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Clover/pseuds/Blue_Clover'>Blue_Clover</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Romance, Depression, Domino Effect but the good kind, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Grief, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, JK no need to squint too hard, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Marquis de Lafayette is a Good Friend, Melancholy, Memory Fog, Mentions of other historical characters, Mild Gore, Post-Revolutionary War, Romance, Smut, Soft George Washington, Supernatural Elements, The Revolutionary Set - Freeform, Valentine's Day Project, Washette if you squint, hand holding, je t'aime mon pain au miel, sap</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:54:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>46,131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29376585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Clover/pseuds/Blue_Clover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On the morning of the 27th of August 1782, John Laurens is shot by a British soldier in a skirmish by the Combahee River in South Carolina, effectively bringing his life to an abrupt stop. His legacy is forgotten, leaving behind only heartbreak and regret.</p><p>After receiving the news of John's death, Alexander Hamilton closes his heart and shuts himself off from the world.</p><p>One year later, devoid of all hope and lost in his own sorrowful thoughts, Alexander suddenly finds himself facing the most unique twist the Universe has yet to throw at him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette &amp; George Washington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_as_starlight/gifts">clear_as_starlight</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: I do not own any Hamilton the Musical or Turn (2014) references or any incidental likeness of them, only the plot.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For my beloved clear_as_starlight, my darling tresse au sucre, whom I am honored to call mine, and who Fate blessedly decided to place into my hand for this Valentine's Day!</p><p>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>I hope you will like this gift, and that you will not suffer a stroke during the parts where I might have foregone sleep &gt;&lt;'</p><p>There's a first time for everything, particularly for Lams!</p><p>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="big">A Soldiers’ Chorus</span>
</p><p>*** </p><p>Act I</p><p>
  <em> I may not live to see our glory </em>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em><sup>1</sup></em><em>To Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens </em> </p><p><em>       I received with great Pleasure, My Dear Laurens, the letter which you wrote me in last. </em> </p><p><em>      Your wishes in one respect are gratified; this state has pretty unanimously delegated me to Congress. My time of service commences in November. It is not probable it will result in what you mention. I hope it is too late. We have great reason to flatter ourselves peace on our own terms sis upon the carpet. The making it is in good hands. It is said your father is exchanged for Cornwallis and gone to Paris to meet the other commissioners and that Grenville on the part of England has made a second trip there, in the last instance, vested with Plenipotentiary powers. </em> </p><p><em>       I fear there may be obstacles but I hope they may be surmounted. </em> </p><p><em>       Peace made, My Dear friend, a new scene opens. The object then will be to make our independence a blessing. To do this we must secure our union on solid foundations; an herculean task and to effect which mountains of prejudice must be levelled! </em> </p><p><em>       It requires all the virtue and all the abilities of the Country. Quit your sword my friend, put on the toga, come to Congress. We know each others sentiments, our views are the same: we have fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy. </em> </p><p><em>       Remember me to General Greene with all the warmth of a sincere attachment. </em> </p><p><em>       Yrs for ever </em> </p><p><em> A Hamilton </em> </p><p><em> Albany Aug. 15. 1782 </em> </p><p><em> Col Laurens </em> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em><sup>2</sup></em><em>To the Marquis de Lafayette </em> </p><p><em>        Since we parted My Dear Marquis at York Town I have received three letters from you one written on your way to Boston </em> <em> , two from France. I acknowlege that I have written to you only once, but the reason has been that I have been taught dayly to expect your return. This I should not have done from my own calculations; for I saw no prospect but of an inactive campaign, and you had much better be intriguing for your hobby horse at Paris than loitering away your time here. Yet they seemed to be convinced at Head Quarters that you were certainly coming out; and by your letters it appears to have been your own expectation. I imagine you have relinquished it by this time. </em> </p><p><em>        Poor Laurens; he has fallen a sacrifice to his ardor in a trifling skirmish in South Carolina. You know how truly I loved him and will judge how much I regret him. </em> </p><p><em>AH </em> </p><p><em> Albany November 3d. 1782 </em>  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> August 26</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>The clock strikes eleven on the timepiece of Alexander Hamilton’s study, startling the young lawyer out of his stupor. He blinks rapidly, the paper under his still quill regaining focus.  </p><p>Alexander runs his free hand through his hair, leaning back heavily into his chair with a sigh. He does not know for how long he has been immobile, unseeing, unthinking, although the dried ink and nearly extinguished candle hint at a disturbing amount of time. It surprises him not, however, given the other similar and countless occurrences he has experienced for the past year. Today in particular, an empty Tuesday no less, has been most unproductive, mostly spent wandering in his own mind. </p><p>Although, considering the day that awaits him tomorrow, perhaps it has been for the best for him to subconsciously nestle himself into the thoughtless part of his brain. It is surely no coincidence that tonight, of all nights, his mind refuses to cooperate with his work. </p><p>Now, however, with the evening long since set, he mustn’t ignore his duty any longer. Thus, he puts down his quill and stands. He makes his way to the ground floor with languid steps, heading into the living room where a full bottle of whiskey and a tumbler await him on the coffee table. He kneels by the fireplace to start a fire –as even though the day has been cloudless and hot, and the evening is now pleasantly warm, Alexander has felt a chill deep in his bone since waking up that morning. </p><p>Once the fire gently begins to lick at the wood and pinecones, Alexander settles down on the armchair the closest to it. He picks up the whiskey bottle, pours himself a generous glass but does not drink from it, setting it back down instead.  </p><p>He waits. </p><p>When the grandfather clock’s hands are seconds away from midnight, Alexander picks the full tumbler and raises it while closing his eyes. </p><p>He swallows thickly, throat constricting for a few airless seconds. The clock strikes midnight with a heart-stopping <em> tic </em> followed by a low and resonating <em> clang. </em>  </p><p>“To you, Jack,” he croaks out, and downs the content of his glass before pouring himself another, unaware or uncaring of the sudden flickering of the candles around the room nor the odd gush of cold wind blowing softly through his red hair. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> August 27</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em></p><p> </p><p>Soon enough, the bottle empties, and another takes its stead. Yet even in his dazed state, Alexander feels no better; if anything, his mind seems to be using the inhibitive component of the alcohol to crack open the memories he has worked so hard to repress. He snorts inelegantly to himself, <em> at </em> himself, for ever hoping to drown out any thought of John Laurens. </p><p>Laurens. John. <em> His </em> John. His dear Jack. His beautiful Jack.  </p><p>His very much <em> deceased </em> Jack. </p><p>Alexander grits his teeth at the useless reminder. He had been acting despondent the entire week leading up to this moment –or the entire year, if one were to ask the right person, namely his maid–, but he had not expected this exact moment to feel so crushing, when really, he ought to have. </p><p>The wood crackles in the fireplace, the flames dancing, hypnotizing, lulling Alexander into a sense of cathartic resignation.  </p><p>John is truly gone, and to hope to suddenly hear a knock upon his front door to reveal him, standing there and smiling with an apology for his cruel absence, is foolish and more harmful than a self-inflicted bullet to the heart. And yet, Alexander has hoped, every day for the past year, nearly shedding a tear for every piece of mail lacking John’s infamous scratchy handwriting. </p><p>The nightmares plague him at least twice a week, although it is better than half a year prior, when sleep would elude him entirely, fearful of encountering any more. Dreams, however, are much worse. Every now and then, he will dream of the war, of the days when there was no battle, no fear of death, only a sense of belonging and pride. John is always at his side in these dreams; laughing, playful, hardworking, motivated, brave –the perfect soldier, the perfect friend. </p><p>The perfect lover. </p><p>Alexander looks up at the clock, narrowing his eyes in a weak attempt to chase away the blurriness at the edge of his vision. The room is spinning slightly, making the discernment that much more difficult. He focuses on the hour hand only, seeing it set shortly after four, which idly surprises him. Perhaps the rest of this damned day will pass just as quickly, and he will be able to drink himself to sleep before noon. </p><p>Although in order to do so, he must refill his glass, even though his already soaked brain along with his liver urge him not to. He ignores both, listening to his heart instead, who begs him to continue. </p><p>As he picks up the bottle, however, a loud gunshot suddenly breaks the silence of the house. He jumps in fright with a slur, accidentally dropping the bottle to the floor. It shatters on impact, but Alexander cares not, leaping to his feet with uncoordinated balance, looking around frantically. He startles again as he hears a horse neighing, the sound originating from no distinct point in the room yet seeming alarmingly close.  </p><p>There is no one else in the room, his confused brain informs him. Just then, a cry echoes from all four corners of the room, breathless and low but no less blood-curling, before fading into nothing. </p><p>Alexander stands there, wide eyes darting all around the living room, heart beating madly with adrenaline, and skin raised in cold shivers. </p><p>“<em> Alexander... </em>” an all-too-familiar voice whispers from behind, pained and frightened.  </p><p>Alexander spins around too fast, tripping over himself as he backs away with a gasp, tumbling unceremoniously to the floor. He looks up for the source of this voice he knows too well. </p><p>But there is no one there. </p><p>A sob bubbles up Alexander’s throat without warning, and with it the dam breaks, sending the befuddled man into a broken-hearted fit on the floor among the shards of the bottle surely at fault for this torture. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> September 5</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>The following week proves to be more of a challenge than Alexander expected it to be. Undoubtedly, he had started it off on the wrong foot; waking up with a pounding headache and a twisted stomach, his body sore from sleeping on the floor, with a few stinging but ultimately harmless cuts from the broken bottle. None of these symptoms had compared to the scattered remnants of the nightmare that had had the gall to manifest during his restless sleep, most likely fuelled by the dubious amount of alcohol he had consumed: John had been there, in his uniform, bloodied and grey-skinned. </p><p><em> “Am I dead?” </em> he had asked Alexander, and had then promptly fallen to the ground, lifeless, his eyes wide and wet with tears, no longer blinking. </p><p>Alexander had forgotten the details during the day, but had unwillingly kept the sentiments of horror and melancholy with him.</p><p>The broken mirror above the fireplace had baffled him enough to distract him for a couple of hours. </p><p>While he had scarcely remembered the events leading to his pathetic appearance, the dryness of his eyes and throat had been strong evidence of his state of mind. When he had painstakingly regained his sobriety, the memories had slowly begun nudging at his mind, but Alexander had refused to acknowledge them fully.  </p><p>Indeed, he has stubbornly remained unwilling to be made to ponder on the meaning behind such a hallucination, lest it may provide evidence that his mental disposition has impossibly worsened over the year. </p><p>The rest of that day had passed by slowly and uneventfully, and just as he had hoped, sleep had claimed him early. </p><p>However, the odd happenings had begun the next day: Every day for a week, Alexander swears up and down that random objects turn up in different places from where he remembers them to have been. A cool wind occasionally blows through the house, even though Alexander makes certain that all the windows are closed.  </p><p>Nevertheless, he brushes it all off, blaming his inattention of exhaustion, both physical and emotional. On one concerning occasion, however, his army chest located in his study had been opened when he had entered the room, his uniform’s cravat lying on the edge of it.  </p><p>Still, he had told himself it was he who had opened it and simply forgotten to close it at some point in time. </p><p>Most disturbing are the low groans echoing throughout the house at ungodly hours of the night. Surely, it is only the house settling, but Alexander finds himself nonetheless perturbed by the distress of the sounds. His imagination truly must be in need of proper rest. </p><p>On Wednesday morning, he finds his papers scattered carelessly on the floor of his study, and Alexander curses his forgetfulness to close the door, for surely, he must have left it ajar and a blast of wind must have sent his work flying. What he cannot explain, however, is the way the ink on several pages is slightly smeared. </p><p>It hardly matters, given the unusable content of the majority of his writings.</p><p>Mrs Kettler, his weekly maid, draws him a warm, lavender-scented bath before taking her leave at five o’clock. Alexander gladly sinks into the hot water, every single muscle in his body, sore from the day’s tension, singing with relief.  </p><p>Today has been a productive day; he has been hunched over his desk since morning, furiously writing. Indeed, ever since quitting Congress earlier this year with the contemplation of moving to New York, Alexander has had a great deal of spare time to pen down his plans and ideas for the future of the nation he’d help to free. There are numerous talks of the British leaving New York by the end of the year, after which he will most probably begin the process of seeking housing there. Given the progress on the endorsement of the Treaty of Paris, bound to be signed any day now –if it hasn’t been signed already–, the remainder of the important cities will surely be given back to the Americans soon. </p><p>He hums in thought, closing his eyes as he sinks further into the tub, holding his breath as he immerses his head underwater. He remains comfortably in this position for some long seconds, enjoying the feeling of limbo the water grants him. </p><p>He eventually emerges, breathing out and in again, feeling utterly at ease. The washroom is fogged up with steam, adding yet another pleasant element to the quiet atmosphere. </p><p>It appears Alexander has spoken too soon regarding that last part however, as he begins to hear wooden creaks coming from the hallway. He opens his eyes, looking over at the closed door. The house is settling with increasing frequency, it would seem.  </p><p>Yet the sounds are heavy, as though someone is walking along the corridor. Perhaps it is Mrs Kettler who has let herself again to collect a forgotten item. </p><p>“Mrs Kettler, is that you?” he calls, and waits. But he receives no answer. The creaks stop as well. </p><p>It must have been a frightened mouse, he thinks, which in itself is bothersome but not overly so. He has lived with worse for far longer, after all. Thus, he closes his eyes again and attempts to regain his previous relaxed state.  </p><p>Yet before he can properly endeavor to do so, a sorrowful exhale echoes in the washroom. Alexander’s eyes snap open as he startles, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the tub, threatening to spill. </p><p>He looks around and behind him, but sees no one. The door is still closed, too. He shakes his head at his paranoia, willing his mind to settle with semi-success. His body, however, remains tense. He must cease these idiotic reactions, shove down his military reflexes. The war is over, no one is after him. </p><p>With an annoyed grunt, he forces his eyes shut once more, swearing to himself that he will keep them closed, no matter what he may think he hears. </p><p>As if to put his word to the test, the imaginary voice presents itself once again, this time in the form of Alexander’s own whispered name, low and alluring.  </p><p>An image of John flashes through his mind, followed by memories of their passionate trysts in the safety of the night. His body begins to show a helpless interest in these thoughts, for which Alexander groans in shameful exasperation; just last week he was drinking away his heart’s sorrows, and now his body and mind are conspiring against him. Perhaps it is their vengeance for the thorough sloshing he gave himself that night. </p><p>Alexander determinedly ignores his unwanted urges, which thankfully slip away, albeit slowly, as his mind ceases to conjure up the culpable voice and thoughts for the remainder of the duration of his bath. </p><p>It is certainly incredible what the brain is capable of evoking when fuelled by fatigue and melancholy. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> September 14</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>When nothing odd happens for the next nine days, Alexander finally allows himself to believe that it must have only been a temporary mental collapse, caused by the combination of lack of sleep and emotional strain. </p><p>So when an unwarranted gush of cold wind prompts him to awaken in the dead of night, grunting at the way his skin rises into gooseflesh, he pays it no mind at first, simply drawing the blanket closer to his chin. And yet, instead of slipping back into his much needed rest, an unnamed feeling urges him to open his eyes.</p><p>He indulges this feeling as his soldier’s instincts agree with the decision, eyelids blinking open groggily. </p><p>He immediately jumps with a yelp, rolling away and getting tangled in the sheets before crashing to the floor in a heap. He clumsily struggles to get on his feet, shoving his blanket away to take another look at the dark figure standing by the window, his back to Alexander. </p><p>The man’s features –for the figure certainly lacks any and all tell-tale feminine curves to be a woman– are indistinguishable from this angle, the backlight of the moon shielding him from identification.</p><p>“Who are you?” he demands, his heart pounding while his eyes dart around for anything he may use as an immediate weapon against the intruder. “What are you doing in my home? Explain yourself!”</p><p>The man does not answer him and remains facing away, as though he has not heard a single word.</p><p>Alexander reaches for his bedside drawer without taking his eyes off the man, blindly grasping for his pistol. It is not loaded, but as a long-time, well seasoned soldier, the process should take no crucial time. But just as he begins to scavenge for the gunpowder, the man slowly turns towards him. </p><p>Alexander freezes, breath stuck in his throat. There has only been one person in Alexander’s life who he could have identified in every situation, in every condition, even with his eyes gouged out: John Laurens.</p><p>John Laurens stands in his bedroom, staring straight at him. He is wearing his army uniform, a detail Alexander should have noticed immediately. His posture is military-straight, his arms hanging at his sides, his sandy blond hair pulled back into a practical low queue. All in all, John stands as a man of the Continental Army would, appearing well and healthy if not for one anormal characteristic: The color of his skin seems… unstable; <em> unnatural </em>. Almost grey and not quite… solid.</p><p>But perhaps it is the backlight playing tricks on Alexander’s eyes. It matters not right this moment as it is most certainly John, for there is no mistaking the man to whom Alexander had helplessly given his heart.</p><p>But it cannot be. It is impossible, yet the proof is right in front of his eyes.</p><p>“John?” he rasps out, pulse beating furiously in his throat. “How– How can this be?”</p><p>John does not respond, nor does he move or even blink. In fact, he appears to be as still as a statue, his chest seemingly not rising, which Alexander judges to once again be a trick of the light. However, just as Alexander prepares to take a step forward, a movement on John’s chest catches his eye. </p><p>He shifts his gaze to it, frowning as there seems to be a quickly expanding stain right at the center of his shirt. As the dark liquid spreads in a gravity defying pattern, rapidly enveloping the rest of the attire. The smell of iron permeates the air, reaching Alexander’s nose with a sickening realization.</p><p>Blood. John is bleeding. </p><p>Alexander gasps in shock as he watches, frozen, the crimson liquid drip from John’s chest onto the floor with the fluidity of a broken bottle of Madeira. The sight is a horrific one, and the tears bite at Alexander’s eyes as neither his legs nor his tongue will comply to help the other man.</p><p>Blood suddenly erupts from John’s mouth, spilling down his chin as though his very insides have been mauled into an indistinguible mix of liquified organs.</p><p>And then he is gone in the blink of an eye, leaving behind no trace of his presence.</p><p>Alexander does not move from his spot, his pistol still hanging limply from his hand, unable to comprehend what has just transpired. Was this all just a dream? A nightmare? Had he had a bout of somnambulism? Had this all been a twisted manifestation of his grief and heartache?</p><p>It had all looked so real, down to the <em> smell </em>. Either Alexander had been dreaming, or John had returned to him, alive but hurt, only to slip away without his notice, or… or this vision had been otherworldly. </p><p>Alexander shakes his head, forcing himself to break from his stupor. He sets his gun back down and walks over to the window, looking down at the floorboards; not a single drop of blood. He swallows thickly, the image of John still fresh and vivid in his mind. Much as he wishes to believe that the other man is indeed alive, he knows it would only be a self-deteriorating comfort to do so. </p><p>The only logical explanation is his mind cursing him with such a nightmare. </p><p>Thus, dejected and broken-hearted, Alexander returns to bed. Sleep, however, does not join him there.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> September 16</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Alexander once remains awake in his bed, the moon already high in the night sky illuminating the corner of his bedroom through the curtains, along with a single candle lit on the bedside table. He has been unable to sleep the two previous nights, mind too consumed by the disturbing image of John, standing by that very window only a couple feet from him, in the gruesome form of a fatally wounded soldier. </p><p>For the past couple of days, Alexander had fallen back into the pit that is the array of morbid thoughts of John’s death; just as he had every day for the first three months after learning of John’s demise, he had imagined the way his dearest friend had died. The news, delivered to him by Eliza, had only mentioned a lethal gunshot. Alexander had not had the heart nor the desire to investigate the details, particularly after learning of the desecration done upon John’s lifeless body.</p><p>Nevertheless, his non-stop mind had gone over the endless potentialities of how John had met his end; had it been a shot to the head, quick and merciful? Yet another shot to the shoulder, causing to fall and be gutted or trampled? A shot to the heart, later echoed by Alexander?</p><p>Mentally shaking off the unwanted thoughts, Alexander attempts to focus back on the book in his hands. He sighs, realizing he must start the page anew, having read without comprehending for the third time now.</p><p>He is extricated from doing so by a cold breath of wind. Alexander jerks his head up, aiming his gaze towards the window where, as he illogically anticipated, stands John at present.</p><p>While the small flame of the candle permits a clearer view of the apparition, it does not serve to elucidate the mystery of Alexander’s apparently dilapidating mind; just as it did the other night, blood covers John’s shirt in a soaking amount, but is at least not cascading in a macabre waterfall. </p><p>This time however, John is neither facing the window nor Alexander, but the bedroom door. </p><p>“Why am I here?” the apparition says unexpectedly, startling Alexander with the accuracy of John’s voice, however toneless.</p><p>He feels his heart being ripped straight out of his chest at the painful reminder. He had not heard John’s voice in a year and a half, not since Yorktown, and to hear it so clearly nearly sends him into a fit of uncontrollable grief. Instead, a sudden fury overcomes him, prompting him to stand from his bed.</p><p>“You are not here!” he shouts, unhinged. “It is only my mind torturing me with guilt and remorse! You cannot be here!”</p><p>Under Alexander’s frantic eyes, John slowly raises his hands to stare down at them before looking straight at Alexander with an unnerving turn of his head. </p><p>Alexander jumps as the candle soundlessly blows out, plunging the room into temporary darkness. He quickly fumbles for his striker, hands trembling and therefore struggling to reignite the candle. When he finally manages to do so, holding the source of light like a shield, John is no longer there.</p><p>“Why am I here?” </p><p>Alexander nearly shouts in surprise as John’s voice now sounds from the other side of bed. He spins on his heels to bravely glare at the figure, now more of a grey mist than a man but nonetheless still eerily recognizable.</p><p>“Go away!” Alexander bellows desperately. “You are not real! You are <em> dead! </em>”</p><p>A pearl of hot wax suddenly drips down on Alexander’s hand, causing him to flinch and glance down at it. When he looks back up, John is gone, nowhere to be seen in the room.</p><p>Alex exhales sharply, breathless, accidentally doing away with the flame of the candle. He drops it to the floor, and sits back down on the bed. His body trembles fiercely, tears gathered in his eyes and threatening to spill. </p><p>This insanity can no longer stand.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> September 17</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps if he finds somewhere else to spend his nights, he will no longer be haunted by these visions of lunacy, is the first thought that graces Alexander’s mind as he stands from the bed with the first rays of sunlight, having been unsurprisingly unable to find sleep for the remainder of the night.</p><p>As he readies himself for the day, he attempts to make heads and tails of last night’s events.</p><p>Indeed, it would seem that his house becomes a field of mental defectiveness only once the sun has set, although why that is thoroughly baffles him. Perhaps it is because he tires himself out too much during daytime. Perhaps it is because of the inane fear of the dark that most humans instinctively have. Or perhaps it is because the darkness reminds him of nights spent in the closest proximity to John, just the two of them, in the privacy of their shared quarters.</p><p>However, all possible explanations are thrown out the window the moment Alexander enters the kitchen to prepare himself an invigorating morning brew and sees the hallucination again, standing on the other end of the kitchen and looking at the wall next to Alexander.</p><p>“Leave me alone!” Alexander shouts without thinking, startling himself with the volume of his voice. “You are not real!” </p><p>The makeshift John looks at him, and in such daylight the details of his features become all the more apparent and blood-chilling, particularly as he turns his gaze to look at Alexander. Crimson continues to dominate the once white shirt of the familiar uniform, while all color seems to have vanished from his visage.</p><p>One particular detail that leaves Alexander breathless with shock and horror are his eyes; just as the many men he has seen long dead on the battlefield, John’s eyes are white and lifeless.</p><p>“Alexander…” John –<em> the image of him </em>– says, voice just as cold and passive as the previous night.</p><p>“Stop it!” Alexander shrieks, unable to bear hearing his name uttered from the mouth such a twisted <em> thing </em>.</p><p>“The British–” John– <em> It </em> continues, only for Alexander to cut him off furiously.</p><p>“Was my grief not severe enough of a punishment?!” he shouts at the figment of his imagination, at the culprit behind this torture whether it be himself or an all powerful entity. “Must my heart be broken afresh?!” </p><p>He grabs the nearest object within his reach, which happens to be a wooden spatula, and hurls it at the grotesque imitation of John Laurens. </p><p>It traverses the figure, causing it to slightly fade into mist before rearranging itself back as the spatula clatters behind it against the counter. Fuelled by his grief and fury against his once prized mind, Alexander grabs a hold of utensil after utensil, throwing them with unnecessary force through the apparition. </p><p>“There’s too many...” it says, wholly unbothered by the projectiles.</p><p>“Get out of my hea–!” Alexander cuts himself off as the copper ladle he has just flung comes to an abrupt halt, thumping against the bloodied chest before falling to the ground.</p><p>His heart follows by example, stopping in its frantic beating in a futile attempt to comprehend what has happened. He looks down at the ladle, far from the other utensils, having been stopped in its momentum.</p><p>The ladle did not hit the opposite counter behind the misty figure of John Laurens; a <em> solid </em> object was intercepted by <em> another solid </em> element; an element which, until now, has proven to be impervious to touch and to any of humanity’s laws. </p><p>He slowly raises his eyes to look at the… <em> thing </em>, and, as though his heart is not dealing with enough shock and terror, sees the grey-skinned facial features twisted into a pained expression, its hand raised and placed on his chest where the ladle had hit.</p><p>“Alexander?” it whispers fearfully.</p><p>Upon later contemplation, Alexander will judge the human tone of voice to have been the deciding factor for his dashed exit and unceremonious escape from his own house rather than any of the other heart-stopping occurrences.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The sun has only just begun its descent when Alexander steps through the front door of his home. He walks towards the parlor with cautious steps, carefully peeking through the doorways as he passes by them. He inhales sharply upon catching his own freckled reflection in the decorative glass cabinet in which is stored a colorful array of spirits, having thought his ghoulish likeness to be that of John’s’. </p><p>He hesitates in front of the cabinet, eyeing a particularly attractive bottle of amber scotch.  </p><p>Just as he feels himself succumbing to temptation, arm beginning to rise and pulse jumping with both anticipation and resentment, a figure turns the closest corner to him. He startles, jumping back.   </p><p>“Oh! My apologies, Sir!” a female voice squeaks out. “I’ve gone an’ given you a fright!” </p><p>Alexander wills his hammering heart to slow down as he nods at his maid in greeting. “No harm done, Mrs Kettler,” he assures her, although his heart begs to differ. “Why are you here still? It is well past your clock.” </p><p>Mrs Kettler readjusts her grip on the large wicker basket in her arms and gives the grandfather clock standing large against the connecting wall a quick glance before smiling sheepishly. “Yes, Sir. I been sewing the pillows and drapes of the living room, I couldn’t leave ‘em like that.” </p><p>Alexander frowns. “What has happened to them? Why did they need sewing?” </p><p>“I be guessing a street cat found an open window and practiced its hunt,” she answers, huffing in indignation. “I haven’t found him; I reckon it be gone now.” </p><p>Alexander’s heart skips a couple of beats, now further convinced that it was no wild cat who caused the damage, but rather something inexplicable. Something he has yet to fully believe in. </p><p>“That is... unfortunate,” he says, mouth now uncomfortably dry. “You have my gratitude for the efforts you have done, Mrs Kettler. I’ll make certain you are compensated for your added time. You may take your leave.” </p><p>“Thank you, Sir.” She curtsies timidly. “I will hang the laundry and–” </p><p>“Nonsense,” Alexander cuts in, leaning forward to take the heavy basket from her, the weight of it no issue for his military body. “I will do so myself. Go home. Please, I would rather not have you walk the streets after sundown.” </p><p>Mrs Kettler smiles gratefully, inclining her head. “Yes, Sir. Good evening, Sir.” </p><p>“Have a pleasant night. I will see you next week.” </p><p>As she scurries away to collect her things, Alexander shoots one last longing look at the alcohol cabinet before sighing and walking away from it. He needs his mind clear of any influence tonight. </p><p>Indeed, spending the entire day walking aimlessly around the city after calming his heartbeat on a nearby park bench had given Alexander the opportunity to think clearly; after enduring endless marches in Washington’s army, one ought to have learned how to get in touch with one’s thoughts in order to organize them, else face the hardship and boredom of hours-long treks.</p><p>Therefore, Alexander had pondered at length over the meaning of all that has happened since… Well, he cannot yet pinpoint exactly the first odd and inexplicable occurrence, given the factors that might have interfered with his perception of reality, namely fatigue, grief, and alcohol. </p><p>Nevertheless, what matters most are the undeniably flagrant apparitions of John Laurens, twice in his bedroom during the night, and once this morning in his kitchen. The sickening show of blood coating clothes, skin, and floorboard alike had not only appeared real but had also <em> smelled </em>authentically enough to remind him of the most sanguinary campaigns. </p><p>However, all of it could still have been brushed off as a singular morbid nightmare. </p><p>The second night had been more difficult to explain rationally, as John’s voice had sounded all too impossibly clear, even lacking in timbre, more so than any prior dream or memory of it ever did.</p><p>Then of course there had been this morning’s madness. Absolutely no cogent argument with himself could be won in regards to the ladle incident, much less to the sudden heart-tearing way John had spoken his name.</p><p>Now, Alexander has never been a religious man, not with his upbringing; he has never understood the need of putting one’s blind faith into some unknown, unproven entity and relying on ambiguous signs before taking action rather than trusting one’s self and being independent of illogical laws, particularly when it comes to the matters of the heart.</p><p>John had often expressed his belief in the sin behind their amorous liaison, turning every ounce of guilt onto himself as to spare Alexander the consequences once ‘judgment day’ would be upon them. This subject had often led the two men to argue; Alexander would vehemently proclaim that love of any kind could never be sinful if it brought happiness to the people involved and thus neither one of them would deserve an eternity in Hell, while John would foolishly respond that everything he had one in his life warranted such a punishment and that Alexander ought to leave him and marry a respectable woman instead.</p><p>More often than not, these types of arguments had led to a quiet reconciliation, sometimes in the privacy of the night, sometimes in a simple supportive hand brushing under the work table. Only once did a similar dispute not resolve in a stronger bond, after which Alexander never saw John again.</p><p>A fact for which Alexander continuously regards himself with shame.</p><p>Back to the matter at hand; he has come to the conclusion that his mind is either severely afflicted with lunacy beyond hope for salvation, or he has bore witness to the evidence of life after death.</p><p>He is unsure which of these options he ought to root for. Perhaps insanely, the thought of becoming senile and demented, especially in his early years before he has even had a chance to accomplish anything worthwhile, terrifies him more than the existence of ghostly revenants.</p><p>But this would be no ordinary spirit. This be John Laurens, or at the very least an echo of his person. His closest friend, his dear beloved. The man he had failed to protect, abandoned and betrayed at <em> his </em>behest. While it had been John who had pushed him away to marry and build a respectable life away from the ‘taint of sodomy’, as he used to say, Alexander had nevertheless failed to push back, to insist that no one could ever replace John’s place in his heart.</p><p>As he continues to mull over these melancholic and existential thoughts, Alexander heads into the kitchen, noting guiltily that the mess he had made earlier that morning has been rearranged. He should have done so himself instead of running away like a coward. </p><p>Although, if he were to regard the situation with the spiritual eye, who could blame him for his reaction? He doubts even the entire British army would have stood their ground in front of a spectre. Did he anger it by shouting at it and throwing a projectile through– <em> at </em> its chest?</p><p>He sets the basket down on the table so that he may grab a piece of bread leftover from the previous morning. His appetite has yet to return since the previous night, but he is wise enough to know when he should not tempt Fate by plunging into this quandary with an empty stomach. </p><p>He lingers in the kitchen for some time, staring blankly at the spot where John had stood, where the lowest drawer now sports a scratch from one of the many projectiles he had thrown. Alexander wonders if he should simply pack up and move. Perhaps this poltergeist is wearing John’s appearance to antagonize him, and nothing more, in which case he should not invite it to more opportunities to send him into an early grave. </p><p>Before he can consider the idea of permanently leaving however, a sudden, loud noise startles him. He looks to the door, knowing it came from another room. It sounded heavy, but unshattered. Swallowing nervously, he takes a hold of the laundry basket, telling himself that it is only because he must still hang his clothes outside to dry, and not because it may procure him a makeshift shield. </p><p>He cautiously makes his way to the living room, now basked in the setting sun’s orange light shining through the multiple bay windows that make for most of the wall overlooking the modest garden, itself closed off from the sight of any passerby with the help of thick hedges. </p><p>Nothing seems amiss in the room, all the pillows and drapes still sewn together, no upside-down furniture, no tipped over vase or plant, no– </p><p>There it is. </p><p>The spectre is standing right there on the garden porch, his back to Alexander. From this angle, the figure looks exactly like John Laurens’, down to the posture. Yet he knows what should greet him should the otherworldly apparition turn around. </p><p>Nevertheless, Alexander has had over a day to think his next actions through; he must confront this manifestation, be it a ghost or his own decimating mind. Either way, his uncertainty ends today. </p><p>Taking a deep breath, he walks purposefully to the back door and opens it in one swift movement while balancing the basket on his arm. He steps out, immediately greeted with the sun’s last rays, their temperature pleasantly warm but not bothersome.  </p><p>Alexander turns his head to look at the ghost, who does not move to acknowledge his presence. From the side, he immediately notices the difference between today and yesterday’s uniform: there is no blood on its front. </p><p>Small mercies.</p><p>One of the two porch chairs is overturned, which would explain the loud sound. Hesitantly, Alexander circles behind ‘John’, keeping his eyes intently on the pale face, forcing his eyelids not to blink as to avoid any surprises. </p><p>As he now stands by the capsized wooden chair, a mere six feet away from the yet reactionless spectre, Alexander finally gathers enough courage to properly take the ghostly figure in: Its face, sickly grey if not almost transparent, is adorned by deep, dark circles under his unseeing eyes –which are, as Alexander had indeed noticed the day prior, deathly white. Its body, while missing no limb nor humanesque detail, remains undeniably lifeless –not unlike the neglected geranium that Alexander can spot through the translucent figure. At least the lack of blood renders it less frightful. </p><p>Gathering his courage, Alexander clears his throat. “Laurens?” </p><p>He receives no answer, not even a twitch of the disturbing eyes. Sighing, Alexander deposits the laundry basket down, and pulls the chair back to its original position. He hesitates a moment before taking a seat, his posture tense but exhausted.  </p><p>He looks ahead at the oak tree standing thick and healthy in the garden, surrounded by bushes and untamed yet luscious grass, all shifting with the summer breeze. The orange hue of the sunset basks the unfolding scene in front of him in a peaceful atmosphere. Perhaps that is why he voices out his thoughts. </p><p>“I know not whether you are truly real, Laurens, or simply a figment of my accursed imagination,” he whispers, resigned. </p><p>He glances at the silent apparition, beginning to believe that he will receive no words from it today. But then, a cold gust of gentle wind circuits around the porch. </p><p>“The war...” it speaks, toneless once again, its gaze still fixed upon nothing. It doesn’t continue. </p><p>Alexander wonders if the entity’s mind is as debilitated as the rest of it. He can offer himself no explanation for a subject matter of which he knows nothing.  </p><p>“You died,” he tells it, tugging at his own heart by doing so. Perhaps that is what the ghost needs to hear, or perhaps he needs to reassure his own mind. </p><p>However, nothing happens; no bright light as depicted by the Preachers, no Holy illumination, and no soothing of his possible insanity. No reaction from the apparition, either. </p><p>“Am I losing my mind, Laurens?” he asks softly, feeling somewhat foolish for asking such a question to the center point of his query itself. </p><p>The spectre looks at him then, its gaze finally gaining an introductory level of focus. It seems curious, even. Alexander holds his breath, waiting for something, <em> anything </em>, to happen. </p><p>The ghost raises its hand slowly, reaching out. Alexander freezes, panic gripping at his insides.  </p><p>“I know you,” it declares slowly, still without a hint of emotion. “Alexander.”  </p><p>It disappears, as though carried by the wind, its hand only inches from Alexander’s cheek before vanishing.  </p><p>Alexander gasps in a much-needed breath, feeling himself shiver and shaken to his core.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> September 19</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Since that life-questioning encounter, Alexander has found himself in some sort of cathartic state. Gone be his fright of this new and unknown development, gone be his need to doubt the tMrs Kettler, gone be his will to ignore it. Perhaps gone be his sanity as well. </p><p>Regardless, he is Alexander Hamilton, and Alexander Hamilton prides himself in his capacity to adapt and overcome any obstacle thrown in his path. It is the only way he will ever survive in a world where one eats or gets eaten, and Lord knows how many times Alexander has dug his way out of life’s stomach.</p><p>Thus, he offers no reaction past an instinctual flinch upon noticing the supposed-spirit of his dear friend standing in the middle of his study two mornings later. Alexander blinks, taking in its bloodless but still misty appearance. Although perhaps he ought to refer to it as ‘Laurens’ for now, for clarity’s sake; impersonal, but intimate enough to cease the disagreement between his heart and his mind.</p><p>“Why are you here?” he asks <em> Laurens </em>without preamble as he remains standing in the doorway holding the new inkpot he had gone to retrieve a few minutes prior, leaving behind him an empty study.</p><p>He receives no answer past an unfocused stare, and sighs.</p><p>“Does your presence here define the existence of an afterlife?” he tries again, stepping into the room with cautious but less uncertain steps than during their last ‘discussion’.</p><p>To his surprise, however, the spirit– Laurens does respond, “I am here.” Although his statement cannot be claimed as sensical.</p><p>“Yes,” Alexander confirms slowly, stepping around him. “But where have you been for a year? Were you at peace? In Heaven? Hell?” </p><p>“I did not want to,” Laurens answers, still immobile.</p><p>“Right. But–” </p><p>“I am here now,” the apparition continues as though Alexander’s questions have gone unheard or unheeded, and disappears without warning, leaving behind only a thin trail of mist. </p><p>Alexander sighs. “Alright.” He takes a seat behind his desk, and resumes his writings.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> September 23</em><em><sup>rd</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Alexander is sitting in an armchair in the living room, reading a book while slowly sipping a glass of light white rum while the rain pecks down on the windows, when Laurens makes another soundless appearance. The slight gust of cold wind is the only indicator of his arrival, prompting Alexander to lift his eyes from his book.</p><p>While Laurens’ presence remains undeniably perturbing, Alexander cannot help but lack the commonsense to fear him. He would even be as bold as to say that he feels… ‘comfortable’ would be too bold a lie. ‘At ease’, potentially. ‘Tranquil’ ought to fit his current state of mind, if he were to look past his initial panic and ignore the raging melancholy scratching at the walls of his heart. </p><p>As a matter of fact, Alexander dares to admit he has missed the spirit these past few days, apprehensive of losing the only manifestation of John of which he has no control.</p><p>Perhaps it is his inability to resist the pull of John Laurens, in any shape or form as it would seem; alive or dead.</p><p>Alexander has no wish to die, and loneliness has never been an influencing factor on his will to live and make a legacy for himself. Losing John, however, had made him question everything he knew about his goals, about love, about survival. He had detested such self-doubt which had plagued him at all hours of everyday until Laurens’ ghostly manifestation.</p><p>Could he truly be blamed for desiring this revenant to be his John? For wishing to be absolved of all doubt and guilt? For needing his heart to be whole again?</p><p>Of course, such company invites countless questions about the meaning of humanity itself, but Alexander, while often accused of never being satisfied, can content himself with this unorthodox return of his dearest friend.</p><p>Real or imagined, talkative or silent, sagacious or nonsensical, Alexander has not felt this driven to resume his life in over a year. His recent drafts and improved sleep are certainly proof of that.</p><p>Just then, Laurens shifts. Alexander has rarely seen him move more than a step, or a turn, therefore to see him walk towards the garden door and–  </p><p>“Ah,” he deadpans as Laurens passes <em> through </em>the door, “Very well then.” </p><p>He stands, setting his book down on the chair, quick to follow the spirit out onto the garden porch. He is not dressed for an outing, especially not in the weather, but nevertheless he trails after Laurens, who continues to walk –or perhaps to float would represent his light steps an inch above the wet grass– towards the oak tree before stopping.</p><p>Alexander grimaces as his shoes sink into the mud the closer he steps to the tree, seeking shelter from the rain; he would rather have sullied shoes than a nasty cold. </p><p>“At least only one of us will dirty up the house after this,” he mutters, beginning to lean against the thick trunk before thinking better of it. He watches as Laurens stands a few feet away, fully under a shower which does not affect him, looking up at the grey sky.</p><p>“Do you not?” </p><p>Alexander sighs, resigning himself for another nonsensical conversation. “Do I not what?” he tries nonetheless. </p><p>Laurens’ lips seem to twitch upwards for the barest of seconds, so brief that Alexander cannot be certain it has truly happened. “You were only a child.” </p><p>Alexander shivers then, both from the cold and the oddly familiar statement. A quiet bell rings in his head, hinting at a recollection of something long passed. </p><p>“I am glad you survived,” Laurens continues, his voice seemingly gaining a touch of life to it. “Come here.” </p><p>Alexander obeys, hypnotized by the scene, stopping only a foot away from Laurens. The bell rings louder in his mind, encouraged by the weather and the words. He <em> knows </em>this moment, he has lived through it; it was raining, the winds crashing against the barracks, the thunder too close for comfort, reminding Alexander of… </p><p>Is this when he had told John about the hurricane? </p><p>Laurens looks down at him then, his white eyes suddenly alight with affection. “I will protect you.” </p><p>Yes, it is. Alexander recalls the way he had felt his chest constrict in that moment, too keenly reminded of the hurricane that had destroyed his home in the Nevis. John had been there to reassure him, to hold him tight and whisper soft reassurances in his ear all throughout the night.</p><p>Does this mean Laurens’ seemingly random string of words have simply been memories? Moments of his life in another time?</p><p>“West Point, August seventeen-hundred seventy-nine, wasn’t it?” Alexander says, his voice cracking slightly from the shock of such a hypothetical revelation and the human emotion in Laurens’ eyes. “There was a fierce storm that night.” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“Thought so. It left the camp in quite a mess–” he cuts himself off with a gasp, eyes widening. “Have you answered me? Can you hear me? Can you <em> understand </em>me?” </p><p>There is a heavy silence, filled with the steady downpour of rain. Laurens tilts his head, now looking at Alexander with curiosity. “Yes.” </p><p>Alexander’s heart jumps up his throat. He takes another step forward. “Why? Why now?” he demands to know, voice climbing in pitch.</p><p>Another pause. Laurens turns his gaze back to the sky. “I find it beautiful.” </p><p>Alexander slumps, a disappointed frown on his lips; it was only a fluke, then. A coincidence of Alexander’s line of questioning and Laurens’ potential memories. “You are not truly my John, are you?” he asks dejectedly, expecting no actual answer.</p><p>Indeed, he is given none, and thus retreats to the trunk of the tree, leaning his back against it and sliding down to sit on its roots, uncaring of the mud that will stain his clothes.</p><p>“I suppose I ought to be grateful for this vision of you,” he says with a sigh. “Not many may claim to be gifted, or cursed, with the sight of their deceased loved ones.”</p><p>A few raindrops flick down on his head from the branches above. He chuckles nostalgically, a hint of bitterness and regret creeping into his voice. “I always did write to you more than you did to me, do you remember? Perhaps we shall simply resume this dynamic, although without our pens.”</p><p>“The vegetation will surely grow,” Laurens continues, lost in his own time.</p><p>Alexander’s lips tug upwards, reminiscent of John’s numerous sketches. “You enjoyed drawing the flora, as I recall,” he states softly, somehow unwilling to let this one-sided conversation stall, lest Laurens disappear. </p><p>Although he has no control over his convoluted friend’s comings and goings, as it is.</p><p>Laurens blinks rapidly, lowering his gaze to stare ahead. “The birds will be hiding for now.”</p><p>“And the birds, of course,” Alexander chuckles again, letting his head thump back against the tree and his eyes fall close. “How could I ever forget the birds? You drew them by the dozen, and quite well at that.” </p><p>This time, Laurens offers no new phrase. Both man and apparition remain silent for a minute or so, as Alexander battles the effects of memories fruitlessly buried. This image of John in front of him, as soothing as it may be in some aspects, is just as destructive in others. He knows this can only be temporary, and to an extent, may still be only a figment of his grief-stricken soul. And yet, he finds himself too weak to refuse such a respite, however how harmful and ruinous it shall surely be in the distant future.</p><p>“I wish I had asked you to draw yourself for me,” he tells Laurens, “As I fear one day my memory will fade, and your features with it.”</p><p>“Maybe one day, my dear boy.” </p><p>Alexander inhales sharply, heart stuttering as he opens his eyes to look back up at Laurens, only to find the spirit gazing down straight at him. He swallows thickly. “How I wish I could believe your words to be aimed at me rather than at a past life only you can see, but I fear giving myself such hope.” </p><p>There is a pause, during which Laurens does not tear his eyes away from Alexander. “‘When no hope is left, is left no fear.’” </p><p>He knows this phrase, from a poet whose name evades him. Even in death, John retains his penchant for philosophical propensity. Despite the quote, or perhaps because of it, Alexander feels his heart shrivel.</p><p>“How can I be certain you speak to <em>me?</em>” he chokes out, “<em>Today</em>, not years past?” </p><p>Laurens’ brow twitches then, almost frowning. He has not been this expressive since Alexander had hurled the ladle at his chest. “Only…” his mystical companion whispers, his tone taking a saddened color as his shape begins to fade away. “T’is a year now.” </p><p>Laurens disappears, leaving Alexander to pretend that the rain is responsible for the slight wetness on his cheeks.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> September 25</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Laurens reappears two days later, once again in the study, shortly after ten in the morning. Alexander’s papers give a rustle, letting him know that his otherworldly companion has arrived.</p><p>“Hello there, Laurens,” he greets him cordially, feeling irrationally embarrassed by his emotional display the other day in the garden. His discomfiture serves no purpose, given that the only witnesses had been this mostly-unresponsive spirit and the rain itself.</p><p>“I am here,” Laurens says to the bookshelf he is facing, thus offering his profile for Alexander to view. </p><p>The redhead perks up; he has heard this statement before, however redundant, and now believed it to indicate the ghost’s presence of mind in their current time rather than a memory. He has also noticed that the more appearances Laurens graces him with, the clearer his words seem to become; less of a toneless echo, more of a mellow impression.</p><p>“How <em> are </em>you here then, like this?” he queries, even though he does not expect a comprehensible or useful answer. He is proven right, and sighs before making another attempt. “Have you returned for a purpose?”</p><p>He is once again met with silence, and therefore frustration. He resumes his writings with a grunt.</p><p>“You are dead, you know,” he grumbles out petulantly, dipping his quill into the inkpot with jerky movements similar to the stabbing he has given his own heart.</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>Alexander stills his hand, glancing up. Laurens is now turned to face him, looking somehow less… absent; more attentive. Perhaps not all is lost on the apparition today, thus Alexander quickly ponders over his next question.</p><p>“The year is seventeen-hundred and eighty-three, are you aware?” he questions, then adds, “We are in Philadelphia.” </p><p>“Yes,” Laurens answers once more. </p><p>Alexander deposits his quill and places his elbows on the desk, propping his chin on his folded hands. “Is it less strenuous to speak in single syllables?” he asks curiously. </p><p>“Yes,” Laurens repeats, and for one shattering moment, Alexander witnesses the man he so loved <em> smirk </em>, shaking him to his very core.  </p><p>Alexander lets out a sharp laugh, nearly sounding like a dry sob. “No mere apparition could replicate your unique wit, Laurens.” </p><p>More silence follows, during which Alexander stands from his chair to walk closer to Laurens, stopping only six feet away from him to observe him properly once more. There are definite changes in the spirit’s physical aspects, just as the day he had appeared without blood, the crimson spill thankfully never to be seen again; Laurens’ skin appears less grey tinted –and dare he even speculate, <em> closer to human-colored </em>–, less protruding circles under his eyes, as well as a more solid form. All in all, his deceased friend seems to be more… lively.</p><p>His eyes, however, remain undeniably dead.</p><p>“I do not understand,” Laurens suddenly says, startling Alexander into taking a step back.</p><p>Alexander frowns as he assesses the words spoken so quietly, reminding him of the many times John would shyly admit to him his fears and weaknesses, his feelings of inadequacy stemming from a childhood lacking of affection and confidence.</p><p>“Neither do I, Laurens,” he divulges with no small amount of helplessness. If there is one subject he cannot pretend to know, it is surely the mystical one. </p><p>Alexander sighs, stepping to the side to circle around the spirit, resuming his observations. It is truly mesmerizing to distinguish both the transparent hue and the gradual solidifying of Laurens’ figure. All the more interesting is the way Laurens now follows Alexander’s every step, slowly turning as to keep their gazes locked.</p><p>“I do not know what I am,” the apparition continues in the same quiet tone, almost as though he expects Alexander to give him the answer to this mystery.  </p><p>“A sign of my insanity,” he shoots back self-deprecatingly, “Or a deserter of the Pearly Gates.” </p><p>Laurens keeps silent, blinking rapidly, his body slowly shifting in and out of focus from mist to humanesque even as his eyes remain fixated on Alexander. </p><p>“How I wish it were neither,” Alexander continues, his throat constricting, “And yet hope it is the latter, if only to have you at my side once more.”</p><p>He halts his steps then, ducking his head and biting down an unexpected whimper. Tears quickly well up in his eyes, threatening to spill as he reminds himself that his beloved John is buried six feet under in South Carolina, marked by a grave he has not had the courage to visit. </p><p>“I miss you, Jack,” he chokes out dolorously. “Every day, I– I wonder what compelled you to– Was my love never <em> enough </em>?”</p><p>Alexander raises a hand to cover his mouth, chest heaving with barely contained sobs, eyes screwed shut in overwhelming grief. A few minutes pass before he is able to regain control of his shallow breathing. His body trembles from the effort of keeping himself from sinking to the floor in hopes of having it open up and swallow him whole, to put him out of his misery.</p><p>“I thought of you then,” Laurens whispers, the tone of his voice as remorseful as Alexander himself feels.</p><p>Something cold touches his hand then, startling Alexander into snapping his eyes open, gaze locking on Laurens’ hand, gently closed around his. It lasts for no longer than a second before those achingly familiar fingers turn back to mist, passing through his own.</p><p>When Alexander lifts his head up again, Laurens is gone.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 7</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Laurens carries on his visits with increased frequency, from a single daily appearance to a handful of prolonged stays, however taciturn he may remain. At times, he will not utter a single word, while at others he will answer Alexander with curt affirmatives or negatives, or with a short sentence, none of which can fully be confirmed to be relevant to the conversation. Overall, his speech does not seem to evolve greatly enough to form a proper two-way conversation.</p><p>What does develop, however, are Laurens’ body language and facial miens; he now always faces Alexander or follows him with his eyes, and more often than not silently expresses emotions such as confusion, sadness, amusement, and occasionally fondness –the latter of which always manages to steal Alexander’s breath away.</p><p>There are no more attempts from Laurens to touch him, a fact for which Alexander is grateful. He had been too shocked to do anything other than stare when Laurens had taken his hand, but later Alexander had felt like he needed to drink his entire liquor cabinet to forget the sensation of the cold fingers –as cold as his own mother’s, as cold as Death.</p><p>On such note, Alexander often reflects and marvels at the incredulity of the situation; only a month or so prior had him out of his wits and mind with fear and apprehension. Presently, he has somehow resorted to treat the ghoulish apparition as a common guest with each of his visits –however wary he remains of any possible attempt of making physical contact. </p><p>Another interesting and <em> new </em> phenomenon comes in the aspect of Laurens sitting down every now and then, an act which Alexander finds to be quite human and oddly congenial. </p><p>Household objects continue to move around even when Laurens is not visible too, and each time Alexander attempts to find the significance behind the choice of the displaced item, usually finding none but frivolity. He does wonder if the Laurens’ demonstrations of his ability to make contact with the world of the living serves as a way to remind Alexander that he intends to remain here. If it is, then Alexander finds no harm in letting his ghostly guest move or tip over his candle holders, jars, utensils, clothes, paintings, etc. </p><p>Although, Alexander <em> does </em> scold him –or the thin air where Laurens <em> might </em> be invisibly standing– when his papers are moved, and Mrs Kettler seems increasingly confused by the odd displacements throughout the day she comes in. Luckily, she does not witness these occurrences as they happen.</p><p>Alexander ignores the doubt-laced voice in his head telling him that he is relieved not to have Laurens appear in front of Mrs Kettler, fearing she will not see him and thus confirm that his deceased friend has been a figment of his imagination this entire time.</p><p>Another argument emerging from this voice examines Laurens’ reaction –or lack thereof– when faced with Alexander either dressing for the day or undressing for night, the untimely visit usually ending with the younger man flustered beyond comprehension.</p><p>Indeed, even as Alexander is quick to cover himself at first out of instinct, he notices with melancholic dismay that Laurens’ eyes don’t roam over his body as they once did, years past. However crude it may seem, this fact provides yet another sign to the logical part of his brain that this John Laurens is not <em> his </em>John Laurens.</p><p>His John is long dead and gone, and while this version of him is both a balm to his aching heart, it is also a continuous push of the spike piercing it.</p><p>“You will not believe whose path I have had the misfortune to cross,” Alexander exclaims in lieu of a traditional greeting immediately after stepping through the threshold of his home. “Or rather, who had the greater misfortune of crossing <em> my </em> path.”</p><p>He finds Laurens sitting in the parlor on the armchair by the window –almost as though he had been awaiting Alexander’s return–, the light of sunset illuminating through him. He looks serene like this, his eyes seeming soft as they look at Alexander.</p><p>“James Callender,” he tells his friend animatedly. “The most spineless, irrelevant, brown-nosed journalist our new nation has ever seen, although I dare say it is an insult upon the respecting career that is journalism! There he was, more pompous than Madame de Pompadour herself, preening about his latest scandalous and hereby worthless pamphlet– You should have <em> seen </em>the sheer size of his self-deluded sense of grandeur, John!” </p><p>Alexander drops down inelegantly on the armchair perpendicular to the other man with an exasperated huff. “The man had the gall to greet me as though I were his inferior! Oh, but let me recount my own greeting of that misguided little–” </p><p>And from then, Alexander begins a tirade, first relating the words which he had used to put Callender back in his place –“under the lowest of worms” when the man had dared to order Alexander to fetch him a drink, then insulting Callender based on his overall character, criticizing his ethics regarding journalism, scoffing on the content of his pamphlets, rolling eyes at his political standing, and finally, complaining about his nasally, grating voice.</p><p>“–never before has a man proved his uselessness so thoroughly!” he finishes, throat dry and slightly breathless from his rant. He leans back against the armchair, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation before sighing in relief, his chest lighter with the weight of his frustration gone with his rapid retelling of the afternoon’s events. </p><p>“Always so passionate, Alexander,” Laurens responds after a few seconds, his tone undeniably amused.</p><p>Alexander glances at him, suddenly reminded of evenings spent in the aides’ workplace, John listening to his vexations about the idiocy of certain generals, failing to hide his smile, later telling him how his passion was incredibly enticing, no matter the subject at hand. </p><p>He seems to have temporarily forgotten that the man sitting with him today is not truly there, not truly a man at all anymore. It has become too easy to be fooled by the comfort of his companionship, by his periodic –and mostly random– replies. The times Laurens answers him with a word or sentence fitting Alexander’s query or statement are the hardest to discern from the harsh reality.</p><p><em> Always for you, John </em>, he used to respond fondly. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 8</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Alexander just about suffers a heart attack when Mrs Kettler comes in that morning –having forgotten her scheduled day of the week–, and knowing Laurens is in the living room causes him to nearly trip and fall as he sprints back down the hallway to shoo Laurens away. </p><p>Laurens, of course, does not take the hint, regarding Alexander with a tilt of his head and amused, crinkling eyes that leave him faltering in his steps. Alexander playfully cusses him before waving his hands in the universal ‘scram’ motion, as though dismissing smoke. </p><p>Mrs Kettler does not see him, nor does Alexander for the rest of daylight. </p><p>That evening, Alexander allows himself a long, hot bath, engulfed from his toes to his chin in water. The tension gradually leaves his body, replaced by soothing heat, encouraging him into a light doze as his mind quietens. </p><p>Thus, he does not register the light brush of cold wind, drowned out by the steam in the washroom. There is no sound other than the occasional drip from the condensation sliding down the mirror above the shaving sink, leaving him entirely ignorant of the pair of white eyes watching him. That is, until he feels a ripple in the water, a cool current gently caressing his calf.</p><p>He frowns, shifting his body away from what must have been the bar of lavender soap accidentally slipping into the tub. He chooses to ignore it for now, unmotivated to wage war against the slippery thing for now. </p><p>However, after yet another odd brush this time on top of his knee, Alexander cracks one eye open, and promptly yelps and shuffles into a guarded seated position, his knees raising up to cover up his modesty. Water sloshes around him and spills to the side in his haste to shield himself from Laurens’ stare.</p><p>“John– Laurens!” he squeaks, his cheeks set aflame as he takes in Laurens’ kneeling position by the tub. “Do announce yourself, Sir! Particularly in such– What in God’s name are you doing?”</p><p>Alexander waves his own current in the direction of Laurens’ wandering hand, presently underwater, in an effort to have him retract it. The knowledge that his leg was being touched by Laurens’ ghostly fingers highly disconcerts him, particularly as it reminds him that he will never again feel the warm, living touch of his former lover.</p><p>“I would ask you to refrain from touching me,” he says tightly, his heart beating out of rhythm as he attempts to make sense of Laurens’ actions. “As a matter of fact, I would also request that you forgo your visits while I bathe.” </p><p>Thankfully, Laurens pulls his hand out of the water –surprisingly without the same ripple it had caused upon entry–, but does not move from his place on the floor, nor does he speak.</p><p>Alexander levels him with an unimpressed glare, yet without any true ill will. “Perhaps we ought to discuss the issue of boundaries, then?” he asks rhetorically. “Much as I, ah, enjoy your company, I had hoped to take this time to reflect. <em> Privately. </em>”</p><p>He sighs as he receives no response past an inquisitive look. It seems Laurens does not intend to leave him to his own thoughts, therefore he forces himself to release the tension of his defensive posture. While Laurens’ eyes remain focused on Alexander’s just as he has done in other invading instances, the redhead nevertheless keeps his knees up close to his chest. </p><p>“I don’t suppose you will at least consider yourself loquacious today, will you?” he tries with a reluctant quirk of the lips. “Seeing you stand there silently is rather unnerving.” </p><p>Laurens blinks, and looks around him. “The Potts’ house...” he says, almost questioning.</p><p>Alexander huffs, amused. “No, this is my home in Philadelphia.”</p><p>Laurens’ gaze shifts back to stare at him, white eyes seemingly gleaming. Alexander swallows, feeling the familiar stirring of heat in his groin despite the obvious conflict of morality. </p><p>“Washington is here.” </p><p>Alexander’s thoughts come to a screeching halt and he barks out a laugh, both in surprise and in genuine amusement; there is nothing more effective to extinguish the heat than the mention of Washington. </p><p>“I should certainly hope not, Sir, not while I bathe!” he exclaims in mock-disrelish. “The creek incident was mortifying enough, if you recall.”</p><p>Alexander internally cringes with phantom embarrassment as he remembers Washington stepping out of the thick gathering of trees and into the open space only to receive a full view of Alexander and John enjoying the cool water of a shallow creek, naked as the day they were born. While they had luckily not been caught in a more compromising and illegal position, Alexander had nevertheless been unable to look the General in the eye for some time after that –much to the aides <em> and </em> John’s traitorous amusement.</p><p>As though remembering the mishap as well, Laurens’ lips twitch upwards for the briefest second. It is enough to prompt Alexander’s heart to perform a somersault. They remain in silence for some time, during which Alexander becomes tempted to reach out and take Laurens’ hand. However, his own fear and apprehension of either touching nothing but air or feeling the cold mark of Death maintains the distance between them. </p><p>After a while, Laurens’ brow furrows, informing Alexander that perhaps he is attempting to formulate a sentence. Alexander watches him closely, taking note of the slight rosy glow on the other man’s cheeks, wondering if it is due to the steam in the room. And yet he finds no sense in that explanation, given that the rain had had no effect on the apparition. Perhaps Alexander is seeing what he wishes to see, to have: Laurens looking more alive than dead.</p><p>Nevertheless, he cannot entirely blame his wistful mind, for there are definite changes in Laurens’ appearance. At times, Alexander forgets that Laurens is not his John, until he meets his deathly white eyes.</p><p>“We are losing, Alexander,” he finally states. Given the mention of Washington earlier, Alexander has no doubts to which subject Laurens is currently referring. </p><p>“The war?” Alexander asks futilely. “No, it is won, Laurens. Our actions at Yorktown sealed the American victory.”</p><p>“What will happen to us?” The question sounds tired, resigned. Fearful.</p><p>But before Alexander can even consider an answer, Laurens disappears, leaving him to mull over the question. He is unsure whether it was in reference to his worries about a future where the Colonies lose, or to their own future together, regardless of the war’s outcome.</p><p>“We won, Jack,” he whispers to the air. “And yet, we both lost.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 11</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Did you receive my letter?” Alexander finally voices this morning’s recurring thought as he prepares himself his first cup of coffee. The process is tedious, but well worth the effort. However, his mind lingers on the previous night’s dream; he does not remember much apart from the overall frustration of his hand struggling to hold a quill, incapable of writing a single legible word and thus unable to complete his duties. Or perhaps he was attempting to write something else, something important. </p><p>“A letter?” Laurens echoes from his corner of the kitchen where he is slowly swiping his hand through a jar of laurel leaves. </p><p>Alexander glances at him with a small smile, pleased that Laurens appears to be in a responsive capacity today; it almost seems as though the more time passes, the more coherent Laurens can be.</p><p>He hums in confirmation, keeping his focus on grinding the beans to avoid thinking ahead. “From the fifteenth of August, a year prior– ah, seventeen-hundred eighty-two.” </p><p>The thudding sound of a heavy object tipping over drags his attention back to where Laurens has succeeded in touching the jar of leaves. Unfortunately, Alexander is too far away to stop it from rolling towards the edge, and Laurens’ solid form remains too volatile to stop it from falling to the floor and shattering into pieces.</p><p>At least Laurens has the decency –or perhaps only the courtesy– to look sheepish. </p><p>“...I do not remember,” he answers then, looking down at the broken shards of glass. Alexander ignores the mess in favor of seeking a more concrete answer.</p><p>“You do not remember receiving it?” Alexander prompts, the urge to know once buried now resurfacing. “Or can you not remember because of...” he gestures vaguely at Laurens’ form, “...this?” </p><p>There is a long pause, during which Alexander unwillingly recites the content of his last letter to John. How many nights had he tossed and turned, wondering if John had ever received it? Had he read it? Had he thrown it out? Had he considered his plea? </p><p>Had his last words of affection never reached their destination?</p><p>“August...” Laurens finally whispers, lifting his gaze from the floor to look at the other man.</p><p>“Yes,” Alexander confirms, hope rising slightly. “The fifteenth of August.”</p><p> But then, a dark shadow befalls Laurens, abruptly restoring his corpse-like appearance. “I died in August.”  </p><p>Alexander swallows thickly at the sight, stepping back reflexively as cold shivers run along his skin. “You did,” he answers tightly.  </p><p>Laurens disappears, leaving Alexander to pick up both the shards of glass from the floor, as well as his own heart’s.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 15</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>The first time he cries is when he remembers the Schuylkill river incident.  </p><p>“You came back,” Laurens says, startling Alexander awake. </p><p>“John– <em> Christ </em>,” Alexander groans, blinking up blearily at the apparition standing at the foot of his bed. He glances at the window, noting that the sun has yet to rise. “Laurens, it be, ah… early, think you not?”</p><p>Receiving no answer, he lets his head drop back on the pillow, his eyes falling close with exhaustion. Sleep remains within easy reach, and yet something is prodding at his mind, telling him to pay attention, but he does not know why.</p><p>“I thought you dead.”</p><p>Alexander’s eyes snap open, and he sits up quickly enough to send his head spinning for a couple seconds. Laurens’ tone. <em> That </em>is what his tired mind had already detected and judged to be odd; it is uneven and tearful. Broken. </p><p>He stands, his legs unsteady from his interrupted rest and the shock of Laurens’ wavering words.</p><p>“Laurens?” he calls quietly as he steps closer to him, leaving a safe distance between them. This close, he can discern a twinkle in the ghostly eyes staring back at him. “What is the matter?”</p><p>“Lee said you were–” Laurens starts, cutting himself off with a choked sound. “I could not–”</p><p>Alexander nearly jumps out of his skin when a sob tears itself from Laurens’ throat. He takes another step forward, his hand begins to rise reflexively, intent on drawing his friend into a soothing embrace, only to catch himself with a silent scolding.</p><p>Disembodied spirit. Right.</p><p>Still, he rapidly runs through what Laurens has said, what he has expressed. He thought Alexander to be dead? What does Charles ‘Boot-Licker’ Lee have to do with this? When did he– </p><p><em> Oh </em> . Of course. Laurens speaks not of Charles Lee, but of Captain <em> Henry </em>Lee, whose involvement can only mean one event.</p><p>“I swam down the river,” he gently tells the distraught spirit. “I survived, and I returned to you. Do you remember?”</p><p>A twin pair of glimmering tears slide down Laurens’ pale cheeks. “Alexander?”</p><p>He disappears. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 17</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“It has now been a month since you first talked to me,” Alexander says as Laurens sits down on the porch chair next to his. “I am somewhat relieved that you had not spoken to me whilst you were bloodying up my carpet, else I should be forced to acknowledge that night as our first proper reunion.”</p><p>Laurens does not answer, looking up at the setting sun. Alexander gladly takes his time to observe the spirit and the way the orange hue offers him a more detailed semblance of life. It is in such instances that Alexander’s mind can be soothed into forgoing the reminders of Laurens’ true state; to be allowed to believe, if even for a few minutes now and then, that he has never grieved the death of his dearest friend but only missed his presence for a year is a blessing Alexander cannot refuse.</p><p>He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes as he lets the sun’s last ray warm his face pleasantly, occasionally reaching for his glass of scotch for a small sip. He has not abused the substance since the night of… Well. </p><p>A gush of warm breeze passes by, and if Alexander did not know any better, he would swear to have smelled John’s unique scent of the graphite pencils mixed with the special kind of parchemin he would use to draw, added with the sweetness of lavender which he kept for special occasions. Alexander’s own choice of lavender soap had been inspired by this fact, after all. This reminds him that he must soon head to the market to purchase another.</p><p>The thought prompts a question in his mind. “Can you leave?” he asks while shooting him a glance, then quickly corrects himself. “The house, I mean to say. Are you able to step foot outside our– my home?”</p><p>While he awaits Laurens’ answer, Alexander scolds himself for the slip of the tongue. </p><p>“I cannot leave,” his friend declares simply, still staring off into the horizon. “I will not.”</p><p>Alexander mulls over the words in his head, finding them to be unsurprisingly vague and lacking pellucidity. “Such morbid irony, that you so often spoke your mind in life, yet now speak evasively.”</p><p>With a sigh, he settles back into a peaceful state, content to let the matter go for now in order to enjoy this tranquil moment. It should not matter if Laurens can or cannot, in fact, leave the perimeter of his house. Although the demuring part of his brain which continues to insist that all of this is nothing but a crack in his mind whispers that the only reason why he will not push for a more straightforward answer is because he fears having these doubts confirmed. For how could he deny it if no one but him were able to see this apparition? </p><p>Laurens would no longer be a ghost, his dearest friend returned to him, but just another shattering reminder of what he has forever lost.</p><p>“You were my second,” Laurens says after some time, the clearness of his voice indicating that he is now looking at Alexander. It thankfully draws the younger man out from his unwanted thoughts.</p><p>“Your second… what, most bothersome tent mate?” Alexander questions with a chuckle, his eyes still closed. “Because if so, then I take offense, Sir, for Tilghman surely had been the loudest snorer, and Meade most definitely the coldest-limbed sleeper in camp.”</p><p>“A duel,” Laurens retorts. “In December.” </p><p>Alexander opens his eyes to look back at Laurens, a small smirk now playing at his lips. “Against General Skunk, yes. You won it beautifully.” </p><p>“You were... relieved.” He sounds intrigued, as though seeking confirmation.</p><p>Alexander recalls the absolute fear upon hearing both guns fired, followed by the sheer relief of seeing no blossoming of crimson anywhere on John’s body. “Obviously.”</p><p>Silence follows his curt response. Alexander sits up slightly, reaching for his glass and taking a larger sip. </p><p>“I made love to you that night.” </p><p>If anyone were to have witnessed this scene, Alexander would vehemently deny the indecorous way with which he has parted with his drink. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 19</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Alexander wakes up in the night to a cold breeze. He cracks one eye open, humming in acknowledgment as he discerns John lying next to him in bed, looking back at him. </p><p>“John?” he mumbles sleepily, letting his eyes flutter close again. “Can you not sleep?”</p><p>“Just us,” John whispers, affection clear in his voice.</p><p>Alexander’s lips quirk up in a lazy smile. “Mhm. Just you and me, Jack.” </p><p>“And no nest,” John continues, now sounding amused and teasing. </p><p>The words make Alexander frown. “What do you speak of?” he asks, forcing his heavy eyelids to open fully. </p><p>As he slowly wakes up enough to properly take in John’s shape, he remembers where and when they are, and who exactly is lying next to him. He sighs, too tired to keep the melancholy at bay. He aches to reach out, to ascertain that John– that <em> Laurens </em>has not returned as he once was, but only as a shadow of his past. Yet he dares not, still.  </p><p>He then realizes what Laurens is talking about; there had been a bird’s nest in the inn’s room in which they stayed after the Battle of Monmouth. “You believe we are currently in the Village Inn in New Jersey, don’t you?” he asks softly.</p><p>Silence. </p><p>Sensing nothing but the threat of heart-tugging memories, Alexander closes his eyes with finality, willing himself not to think about those cold nights in the privacy of that room, both still relishing their survival and victory at Monmouth, blissfully falling asleep in each other’s arms for many a night before their paths were to be temporarily separated. </p><p>He unwillingly remembers the night before John’s departure to meet Count d’Estaing, when the bird’s nest –now thankfully empty– had fallen to the floor, thus finally allowing them to enjoy the upcoming morning without the cheery chirps of the feathery early risers. </p><p>After their quiet but passionate tryst –their last one for weeks or perhaps months to come–, their love for one another blissfully expressed in ways words could not, Alexander had asked John for reassurance. </p><p>“Will you come back to me?” he had whispered then, unknowingly repeating it tonight as well.</p><p>“Always,” Laurens echoes his answer from half a decade past.</p><p>Alexander does not need to open his eyes to know that Laurens has gone for the night, letting his tears fall quietly into the sheets.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 23</em><em><sup>rd</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Laurens!</em>” A passerby couple startles at the loud, irate shout coming from the house on 226 Walnut Street as it disturbs the quiet Sunday morning. “Did you let the damn birds in again?! I swear to all that is holy <em>and</em> unholy, if you did–! <em>Laurens, nom de Dieu!</em>”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> October 24</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“The Marquis has returned.” </p><p>“<em> Christ </em>,” Alexander exhales sharply as he looks up from his writing, startled out of his trance-like focus. A quick assessment of the natural light basking his study informs him that the sun remains high in the sky.</p><p>Laurens is peering out the window, although Alexander doubts he is truly seeing the current outside world. He once again wonders whether people can see him or not. However, the time when he had wished to be told that Laurens’ spirit was not actually here has long since passed.</p><p>“Washington seems relieved,” Laurens continues, a small smile on his lips. Every quirk of his lips sends an array of butterflies in Alexander’s stomach, and this one is certainly no exception. </p><p>“Ha! If I remember correctly, the Old Fox was <em> ecstatic </em>.” He snorts inelegantly. “Well, as ecstatic as a man such as he could be, that is.” </p><p>“Come look,” Laurens beckons playfully. Naturally, Alexander joins him, despite knowing he will not see what the spirit sees. </p><p>“What is happening?” he asks him, willing to at least venture a guess as to the year of the event Laurens is witnessing.</p><p>Indeed, since his very first acquaintance with the Marquis, Alexander had faced the struggles of holding back his snickering while General Washington had been bestowed the <em> bise française </em> by the endearingly zealous Frenchman. An uncomfortable reaction from Washington would indicate the year to be 1777, from August to mid-December. By January 1778, Washington had nearly perfected the reciprocity. Starting June of that year, he had been the one to initiate it, much to Lafayette’s delight –and the aides’ amusement. </p><p>“One... two...” Laurens counts with mock-solemnity. “By God, Hamilton, he has mastered it.”</p><p>Alexander laughs. Judging by Laurens’ speed of the enumeration for the <em> bise </em>and his comment of it, the year ought to be 1778, perhaps in the spring. </p><p>“Under one minute,” Laurens says then, mischievous. </p><p>“Ah.” Alexander remembers this; it seems they are engaging in yet another gamble regarding the number of minutes the Marquis will grant them in greeting before following Washington to another room to exchange reports. “I will raise you a minute, Sir.” </p><p>And so he waits, taking the time to relish in Laurens’ carefree attitude, his easy-going smile. Then, as Laurens turns, Alexander does as well, looking at the door of his study for the remnants of their shared past. Alexander expects Laurens to react in some way at their invisible friend’s arrival, perhaps with a greeting in Southern-lilted French. </p><p>He does not, much to Alexander’s quiet disappointment. Indeed, when he looks back at Laurens, the spirit’s white eyes have returned to a vacant state, staring blankly at nothing.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>That night, just as Alexander finds himself on the brink of sleep, Laurens speaks up from behind him on the other side of the bed.</p><p>“I win,” he declares, bordering on smugness. </p><p>“Shhh,” Alexander hushes him with a tired huff of laughter, not aware enough to question what Laurens may be referring to.</p><p>There is a pause, during which the last string of consciousness unravels from Alexander’s mind.</p><p>“We shall not be seeing them until tomorrow,” are the last words he hears before slipping into a peaceful slumber.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Philadelphia </em>
</p><p><em> October 25</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em></p><p> </p><p>Under Laurens’ watchful and curious gaze, Alexander seals his letter with special care. After all, it is bound for a lengthy voyage.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Philadelphia </em>
</p><p><em> October 28</em><em><sup>th</sup> </em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Alexander Hamilton was never the kind of man to marvel at coincidences, no matter how far-fetched they may be. According to him, nothing was coincidental, and everything had a reason to be. While his beliefs and entire existence might have been put into question since Laurens’ ghost’s arrival, particularly in regards to the spirit’s vague answers to his queries, he can now firmly reaffirm that his mind has settled back into its logical and dissective explanations –as much as accepting the existence of otherworldly beings may count as logical.</p><p>Therefore, Alexander quickly becomes alert the moment he opens his eyes on the morning of October twenty-eighth to find Laurens lying next to him on the bed. Never before has he woken up on his own with Laurens in this position. He has fallen asleep next to his friend numerous times, and been roused by a cold gust of wind at ungodly hours of the late night and early morning on countless occasions, but never before has he started the day in such a convivial setting.</p><p>Strangely enough, the spirit does not emit his usual cold disposition either. Another abnormality in this already atypical situation is the slight indent left on the pillow after Laurens stands from the bed alongside Alexander, who watches the mark with confusion.</p><p>Furthemore, it certainly does not escape his notice how Laurens opts not to leave his side for a single minute –although mercifully he does give Alexander his privacy for a certain type of business. </p><p>Laurens follows him around the entire matinée, declining to make any type of conversation, either sensical or not. On multiple occasions, instead of answering one of Alexander’s more direct questions, he attempts to reach out to take his hand, but fails to do so every time.</p><p>Alexander refrains from jumping at each endeavor, but nevertheless shivers in discomfort. He does, however, offer a tight but reassuring smile to the dejected-looking spirit, while silently wondering if the feeling of Laurens’ hand passing through his has ever felt this chambré. </p><p>Come afternoon, Alexander has given up getting any work done, too preoccupied with this turn of events; Laurens has not disappeared once since this morning, yet has also not spoken a word nor moved any object.</p><p>It cannot be a coincidence that this development happens on this day, when John Laurens would have turned twenty-nine.</p><p>“Can you tell what day this is?” Alexander asks that evening as he sets down the bottle of red wine he has brought up from the cellar.</p><p>As with his other questions and comments throughout the day, he receives no answer. He sighs, and begins uncorking the wine before pouring himself a generous glass.</p><p>“For so long I had imagined us celebrating such a day outside the milieu of war,” he starts, closing his eyes as one of the many fantasies of his wistful mind is conjured. “Perhaps with a picnic by a lake in the countryside, not another soul around for miles.”</p><p>He exhales shakily, the fanciful vision dissipating as he opens his eyes, and takes a long sip of his wine. Laurens remains standing on the other side of the counter, watching him silently.</p><p>“Many happy returns, my dear Laurens,” Alexander whispers, bringing the glass to his lips once more. “If only it could be so.”</p><p>How he wishes he could hear some of John’s loving words right this moment, his <em> genuine </em> words, and not those of his lost revenant. While Laurens may be his dearest friend’s bona fide spirit, he is not truly the John Laurens Alexander had grown to love and cherish. This version of him is, for a lack of a better and less redundant term, void of life. Certainly, there are undeniable memories coursing through the spectre’s equivalent of a brain, but none are with true purpose.</p><p>This John Laurens, as heart-warmingly real as he may seem at times, remains just a shadow.</p><p>Alexander finishes his glass in the kitchen, before pouring himself another and heading into the living room with Laurens behind him. He suddenly stops in his steps, an idea flashing in his mind. </p><p>
  <em> John’s loving words. </em>
</p><p>He sets down his glass on the fireplace mantle, pulling up the bookshelf ladder. Were he not so small, he would not need it to reach for the book he desires to reach for. Although that is the exact reason why he has put it as much out of reach as possible in the first place: to avoid such an easy temptation. </p><p>Climbing up the ladder slowly, it requires him a mere couple of seconds to locate the worn leather spine of the book on which his mind is set. He pulls it out, blowing softly on the top of the pages to rid it of dust.</p><p><em>‘Du contrat social; ou, Principes du droit politique’</em>, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau; a treasured gift from John upon his return from France in August seventeen eighty-one. </p><p>He has not opened this book since their parting of ways, and had vowed never to think of it, much less read it after learning of his death. All other memorophilia of their time together is locked away with his military items. However, Alexander had given this book the privilege of remaining just within sight but out of reach, in hopes of one day being courageous enough to read the unfiltered words on the endpaper once again.</p><p>Alexander climbs down from the ladder, already opening the cover as he turns around.</p><p>“<em>‘To my Beloved Alexander,’ </em> ” he reads aloud, throat already constricting, “<em>‘Forgive my inaptitude with words, as any surely pale to yours. Months have passed in achingly slow momentum, the lack of you which has left me with gaping emptiness and great longing in my heart.’ </em>”</p><p>Alexander clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. </p><p>“<em>‘Not a day has gone by where I be not left yearning for your presence, your kindred mind, your smile. I hope you will permit me to show you the way I have hungered for your body as equally.’ </em>”</p><p>He swallows thickly, his eyes beginning to sting with bitter tears.</p><p>“<em>‘Never again should I wish to be apart from you, and if the Fates will have it so, never again shall I be. I am yours forever, my Dear boy, come what may, in Peace and War.</em>’”</p><p>He continues to stare down at the words for a few seconds, breathing in and out unevenly. A wave of melancholy rushes through him, threatening to drown him in the despair of grief.</p><p>“The beginning.” Laurens’ voice startles him, his first words of the day sounding all too close.</p><p>Alexander lifts his gaze from the handwritten note, heart jumping in fright at the spirit’s proximity; Laurens stands a mere single foot away from him, his figure almost entirely opaque, the color of his skin more pink than ever, his lips rosy and the circles under his eyes all but gone.</p><p>His eyes, however, remain a stark reminder of what exactly stands so close to him. </p><p>“Of what?” Alexander asks, his voice cracking, his breaths becoming shallow as he makes to take a step back but finds himself held in place by the ladder.</p><p>“You had grime,” Laurens says, blinking rapidly, his head tilting slightly. “There.” </p><p>Alexander follows Laurens’ thumb as he points it on his own cheek, rubbing the eerily human-looking skin there before tracing it down to his lips.</p><p>He smiles –an <em> actual </em> smile. Not a smirk, nor a quirk of the lips, but a beautiful, dazzling, <em> lively </em>smile, just as radiant and bewitching as Alexander remembers it to have been. It takes Alexander’s breath away, nearly sends him kneeling from shock, his legs trembling madly. </p><p>“I found Heaven on your lips,” Laurens continues, unknowingly propelling Alexander into such a vivid memory that a gasp is forced out of his lungs at the sheer force of it.</p><p>September eleventh seventeen seventy-seven, the night after the Battle of Brandywine. Alexander, as opposed to John, had not been permitted to fight, and thus had been made to watch the battle unfold from afar, worry and dread searing into his gut at the thought of John perishing on the battlefield.</p><p>After visiting the Marquis in the medical tent following the surgery on his leg, John and Alexander had retired to their shared tent, exhausted. Both had been overcome with relief that all three members of their close-knitted group had survived the disastrous battle.</p><p>And in the privacy of their sleeping quarters, John had reached out to wipe away a persistent streak of grime from Alexander’s cheek, held his chin with his other hand to keep him still, let his eyes trace the contours of his lips and his thumb feel their softness, until their gazes had met with sudden clarity and unbridled affection.</p><p>It would have been impossible to discern who had kissed who first.</p><p>Without the ladder behind him to hold him up, Alexander would doubtlessly collapse into a heap of breathless sobs. The urge to run, to hide into the small space available, is loud and strong. Yet it is not enough to send him into such action. Instead, he sheds silent tears, each indiscernible from present heartbreak or joyful nostalgia.</p><p>His capacity to speak, to wield words with renowned expertise, leaves him traitorously. Therefore, he raises a shaking hand, overwhelmed by the desperate need to <em> touch </em> , to let Laurens– <em> John </em> know that he loves him still, always has, and forever will. </p><p>A breathless sob escapes him as his hand settles on John’s cheek without passing through it. His skin is neither deathly cold nor lively warm, simply <em> there </em>. </p><p>“John?” he rasps out, unable to think with anything but his broken yet hopeful heart.</p><p>In an impossible convolution, color gradually fills John’s eyes, as though their whiteness had only been a curtain, a veil, now slowly lifted to reveal the familiar shade of ocean blue that Alexander had forlornly longed to see again.</p><p>Those eyes, which have both graced and haunted his dreams for over a year, glint with coalescing recognition.</p><p>“I have missed you so, Alexander.” </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>***</p><p>French Translations : </p><p>-nom de Dieu : for God’s sake </p><p>-bise française = traditional French custom of kissing both cheeks </p><p>-‘Du contrat social; ou, Principes du droit politique’ : ‘Of the social contract; or, Principles of political law’ (book by Jean-Jacques Rousseau) </p><p>-‘Les actes de la conscience ne sont pas des jugements mais des sentiments’ : ‘The actions of consciousness are not judgments, but sentiments’ (quote by Jean-Jacques Rousseau)</p><p>-la petite mort : orgasm (euphemism)</p><p>***</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Everything alright so far, my love?</p><p>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>[Warning: Act II is NSFW]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Act II</p><p>
  <em> But I will gladly join the fight </em>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 4</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>A week later finds Alexander somewhat frantic; he has not seen John– Laurens– <em> John </em>, oh but it matters not! The ghost has not appeared to him in seven days, not once since disappearing a mere few seconds after his heartfelt declaration.</p><p>After his eyes had returned to their iridescent color.</p><p>After Alexander had finally gathered the courage to touch him.</p><p>He has pictured the evening in his head over and over again, as though on a loop, torn between incredulity and disbelief. The more he would mull over every detail of that moment, the less convinced he would become of it happening in the first place; it had all been too poignant, too reminiscent of the past for it to have been but a memory unconsciously slipped into his reality.</p><p>Each night since has found him awake, either immobile in bed or wandering around the house in hopes of catching sight of his friend to certify or refute the truth of what he had thought to have witnessed.</p><p>Finally, Laurens materializes in his study on a grey afternoon, interrupting Alexander’s unproductive quill-fiddling at his desk. The agitated, sleep-deprived man nearly topples over his chair in his haste to stand.</p><p>“Where have you been?” Alexander questions briskly as he walks up to Laurens, eyes wide and wild, his attention too unfocused to notice the apparition’s unwavering form and his lack of blue coat. “I thought you gone!” </p><p>He is met with frustrating silence.</p><p>“Are we reneging on two-sided conversations, is that it?” he persists, now standing a couple feet in front of Laurens, whose <em> blue </em> eyes regard him intensely.</p><p>When still, he receives no answer, his week-long angered concern melts away, leaving him to feel drained and tilting towards the belief that the electrified moment that had occurred between them the would-be night of John’s birthday had, indeed, been a cruel trick of his mind. </p><p>“Have I done something wrong?” he asks quietly, hoping to coax something, <em> anything </em>, out of the spirit. “Laurens?”</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>“John?” </p><p>Alexander closes his eyes for a couple of seconds, inhaling and exhaling shakily, before returning to his desk. He sits down heavily on the chair, hunched over to prop his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. </p><p>“Why do I continuously allow myself these foolish hopes?” he chides himself. </p><p>“I am here,” John– <em> Laurens </em> finally speaks out. “How am I here?”</p><p>Without moving from his desolate position, Alexander huffs out a bitter laugh. “I am aware of your presence,” he mumbles. “I see you. We have gone through this a number of times.” </p><p>“No, I– I am–” the spirit stammers uncharacteristically. “I am <em> here </em>, I– I feel... I remember.” </p><p>Slowly, Alexander looks up, frowning as he sees Laurens examining his own hands, lifting, turning, and lowering them as though a curious child.</p><p>“What do you mean you ‘remember’?” he asks the confused-looking spectre. Alexander has certainly seen him disoriented –more often than not, as a matter of fact–, but never with such… human fluctuations.</p><p>“This is–” Laurens continues, sounding implausibly breathless. “I do not understand it, yet I remember.” He looks down at himself while Alexander carefully stands up again.</p><p>Their eyes meet, the air in the room thickening with tension. Neither man speaks for long seconds, until they do so simultaneously.</p><p>“John–”</p><p>“I died.”</p><p>Perhaps it is the week-long fatigue, or the month-and-a-half-long hosting of a spirit, or the year-long grief and loneliness, or the unholy combination of all three that prompts a laugh to bubble up his throat.</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, you did. And here you are–” He laughs with renewed hysteria, unable to stop until his eyes begin to water and he must lean against the desk to support himself. All the while, Laurens watches him without comment.</p><p>“Christ,” Alexander breathes once he finally manages to contain himself. “I apologize. I, ah, I do not know what… to say.” </p><p>To his relief, Laurens does not seem to have taken offense at the other man’s bout of deranged fit. Instead, he begins looking around the room, his brow furrowing then softening every couple of seconds, as though he battles confusion and recognition.</p><p>Hundreds of questions rage war on Alexander’s tongue, each wanting to be the first to be asked. But Laurens beats him to it.</p><p>“How long have I been here?” he asks quietly, without the previous agitation.</p><p>Alexander takes a cautious step forward, wanting to take a closer look at the apparition who would now assert to be without an errant mind. “I am unsure,” he responds slowly. “September, I believe. Two months ago.” </p><p>Laurens closes his eyes with a contemplative hum. “I cannot stay long, I think.” </p><p>“What?” Alexander exclaims, eyes widening in panic. “Whyever not? Where are you–” </p><p>“Calm down, Hamitlon,” his friend tells him soothingly with a small smile. “I will return, of that I am certain. It is merely... taxing, so to speak, to remember.” </p><p>Alexander cannot claim to remotely understand what this means, but he trusts the other man’s word, no matter what, no matter his spectral form. “I will see you again, then?” he nevertheless asks timidly, needing to be reassured.</p><p>Laurens nods, his blue eyes twinkling with unmistakable affection. “You will. Together, we are bound to understand this.” </p><p>He disappears.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 9</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>The five days in between Laurens’ –or ought he call him John now– reappearance are among the longest of Alexander’s life. He trusts his dearest friend to return to him, but every day without his presence serves to feed into his worry.</p><p>Thus, when Alexander feels the temperate gust of wind brush the back of his neck, he places his quill in the notebook resting in his lap, closing it before setting it down on the coffee table. He stands, a small smile inevitably already forming on his lips at the prospect of seeing John again, of talking to him without as thick a barrier as Death had originally put between them.</p><p>“Good morning, Laurens,” Alexander greets him softly, decidedly unsure as to the appropriate way to address the man standing half-a-dozen feet away from him in his living room, the coherent spirit of his dearest friend, of his former lover, of his heart’s deepest and most ardent desire.</p><p>“Good morning, Hamilton,” John responds, as though they have both only risen from their beds as per usual. </p><p>Nothing, however, is usual about this situation. Nevertheless, the small, sheeping smile John offers him is enough to soothe Alexander’s nerves from another potential hysterical fit.</p><p>“You are a spirit,” Alexander starts without preamble, stepping forward.</p><p>John’s smile turns slightly twisted, captured between one of fondness and a grimace. “Always so direct, Sir,” he replies, and looks down at himself. “However, it would seem so, yes.” </p><p>Alexander breathes out a quiet sigh of relief at the certification that John’s rational mind seems to remain as such. “And you are no longer, shall we say, errant?” </p><p>John gives a minute shake of his head. “I do not feel as such.”</p><p>“How is this possible?” the freckled man continues without missing a beat.</p><p>“I do not know.” John’s voice is oddly calm, a sharp contrast to Alexander’s wavering one.</p><p>“How do you not know?” he snaps, his patience but subtle questioning already on its way out. “You were– You have been <em> dead </em>for over a year now! How can you be here?!” </p><p>“I would tell you if I knew, Hamilton,” John assures him, raising his hands in surrender. “Can we– May we sit?”</p><p>Alexander blinks, realizing that he has been stalking closer to John with every single one of his muscles more tense than a musket ready to fire. He forces his body to let go of its defensive posture with a long exhale. </p><p>“Of course, my apologies.” He then gestures for John to take a seat in the armchair opposite from where Alexander had been writing earlier. He notes how the spirit’s leg lightly passes through the edge of the coffee table.</p><p>They each take their respective chair, with Alexander half-expecting John to pass straight through his. Thankfully, he does not.</p><p>“Is there anything you do know?” he asks him in a more calm manner.</p><p>John’s brow furrows slightly, eyes closing in concentration. “I only know that, just as I believed to take in my last breath, I suddenly stood here, in a place unknown to me. No longer dy– No longer in the fields near Combahee River, no longer in South Carolina.” He pauses, opening his eyes to meet Alexander’s hardened gaze.</p><p>“Yet I also was,” he continues, his tone questioning. “I saw you, yet I also did not. I did not understand, still do not, as I have said. Now, however, since a few days prior, I find myself able to think clearly once more. It is as though… as though a fog has lifted from my mind.”</p><p>Alexander hums. “You appeared as fog too, initially. A grey mist,” he says. “You seemed, for a lack of a better word, lost.” </p><p>“I <em> felt </em>lost,” John agrees. “I knew not where nor when I was, why I felt so cold, so light. At times when I recognized you, or at least recognized the presence of another, I did not understand why you could not always see me.” </p><p>“Is it possible you’ve been here this entire time?” Alexander asks, taking this new knowledge into consideration. “This entire year?”</p><p>John frowns, shaking his head. “I am not sure– No, I do not believe so. I remember…” he hesitates, seemingly searching deep into his tangled memories. “I was shot, thrown off my horse, everything–”</p><p>He pauses to swallow, a small shudder coursing through him. Alexander itches to lay a hand on his shoulder to offer comfort, but refrains. John continues.</p><p>“Everything hurt, I was... And then nothing, complete darkness for what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours.” He looks up at Alexander with a frown. “Or perhaps a year. Regardless, I could suddenly smell firewood, and hear a voice. My mother’s. My brother’s. And yours, after which I was inexplicably in this unknown place.”</p><p>The two men remain silent for a time, both thinking over the intricate meaning behind John’s labyrinthine recollection of events. Alexander attempts to recall the early hours of the anniversary of John’s death, past the self-inflicted drunken haze. Back then he had rationally dismissed any odd occurrences by blaming them on the alcohol and grief and so on. However, with what he has witnessed these past couple of months, and now with the addition of John’s point of view, the connection solidifies.</p><p>“You came back on your day of death,” he puts forth. “It cannot be a coincidence.”</p><p>“I am inclined to believe you are right,” John says readily, his head still bowed and brow furrowed. </p><p>“Do you not always?” Alexander quips lightly.</p><p>John scoffs and looks up, his expression changing to match the other man’s playfulness. “Do you require help to dismount that high horse of yours, Hamilton?”</p><p>Alexander barks out a laugh, the two men dissolving into soft chuckles. The tension momentarily breaks. </p><p>“Have I once harmed you, my friend?” John asks then, his tone hesitant.</p><p>“Harmed me?” Alexander echoes, muting the incredulity from his voice. The very thought of John hurting him is preposterous. “Never. Do you believe you have?”</p><p>“I do not know,” he responds, sounding frustrated at his own repetitive answer. “I may not recall my exact actions nor words, but I distinctly remember the sentiments behind them. I have felt them coursing through me, sometimes bursting uncontrollably.”</p><p>Alexander does not need to rack through his brain to conjure up the memories. “You have not harmed me, Laurens. A broken mirror and shredded drapes mean nothing if it allowed you to materialize as you are now.”</p><p>“Anger and fright,” John explains quietly. “In a way, I understood what had happened to me in battle, I could feel it. But I could not accept it.”</p><p>“The letters on my desk, my army chest,” Alexander lists. “That was you as well, was it not?”  </p><p>John nods. “Your handwriting was familiar even through the confusion, as were your military memorabilia.”</p><p>“I see,” Alexander breathes out, leaning back in his chair, eyes closing as he connects the dots from John’s explanations.</p><p>The sounds of gunshot, horses, the pained cries Alexander had heard in the first hours of the anniversary of John’s demise had been some sort of echo of the past, of the actual event itself. The thought is sickening, and he forces himself to push it away.</p><p>The broken mirror a few hours later had been a result of John’s fear and anger, as were the torn cushions and drapes a few days after that, when Alexander had fled his home in terror following the ladle incident.</p><p>What he cannot comprehend is the way John’s figure had originally presented himself as the epitome of a horrific nightmare, bloodied and empty-looking, only to progressively return to the appearance of the man Alexander had dearly loved.</p><p>Somehow, he doubts John possesses the answer to this complexity. Besides, there is another matter that nudges at his mind.</p><p>“Were you in the washroom with me?” he blurts out, already feeling his cheeks heating up.</p><p>John, who had been contemplatively staring into nothing now shifts his gaze to him, and blinks before closing his eyes in reminiscence. He smiles amusedly, and according to Alexander, coyly as well.</p><p>“I remember smelling lavender, and feeling a certain fondness,” John says, opening his eyes to look straight at Alexander, his blue eyes gleaming. “I recognized you.” </p><p>Alexander is now certain his face has reddened, recalling exactly how his body had reacted to the sultry way his name had been whispered into his ear. He clears his throat. “Christ, Laurens,” he chuckles nervously. “How utterly inappropriate of you.” </p><p>A single beat of silence passes before the two of them are overtaken with a fit of laughter. </p><p>Alexander is certain he has not laughed this much nor this genuinely for over a year, ever since his and John’s separation after Yorktown in fact, much less after learning of his death. A piece of the heavy weight lifts from his heart at the sound of John’s laugh as well, content to let himself be once again tricked into believing all is well.</p><p>Of course, this belief cannot last long, especially as John soon declares that he tires, and must depart –where to, neither of them knows–, promising yet again to return soon, much to Alexander’s quiet but obvious relief.</p><p>Once alone, Alexander is surprised to catch sight of his own reflection in one of the bay windows <em> smiling </em>.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 10</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Your capacity to remain longer increases with time, is that correct?” Alexander asks him the next day as he paces around his study, scribbling down notes at the same time, determined to make heads and tails of these never-before recorded circumstances. </p><p>“Yes. And no,” John answers from his seat at the small nook of the furthest window as he watches Alexander move back and forth energetically. “I feel it– I feel stronger, but not necessarily due to time.”</p><p>Alexander stops by his desk to dip his quill, a few droplets dripping onto the already ink-stained desk, before looking at John quizzically. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I felt at my weakest when you rationalized me as a mere hallucination, for which I cannot justly blame you,” John answers matter-of-factually. “As we presently talk, my heart –or its ghostly replacement of it– feels... heavier, in the most pleasant and relieving way.”</p><p>Alexander ceases his scribbling to look up at John, who huffs a small laugh at the look of bemusement on the freckled man’s face. “Do my words not sound entirely sensical to you, Sir?”</p><p>“Not quite,” Alexander responds with a sigh. “Then again, I doubt any of this will ever truly be concluded with certainty, as it surpasses our knowledge of the sciences.”</p><p>There is a short silence, until Alexander clears his throat. “However,” he continues, “I do feel as though my heart has become heavier in this way as well. Fuller.”</p><p>Whether John’s cheeks legitimately take a red tint at his statement, Alexander cannot pledge unquestionably.</p><p>The matter seems to come to a close regardless, as John stands up to walk to the desk. He attempts to pick up a pencil, failing half a dozen times before finally succeeding, all under Alexander’s watchful gaze.</p><p>“Have you an explanation for your frequent alterations between a solid state and a, ah,” Alexander hesitates, “A more spectral one?”</p><p>The pen falls through John’s hand, clattering on the wooden desk. “I wish I could elucidate this matter, yet cannot,” he sighs, and recommences his efforts to hold the light object. “Perhaps the answer lies within sentiment as well.”</p><p>“You would place such importance on something intangible?” Alexander asks dubiously.</p><p>John abandons the pencil, shifting his attention back to the other man. “‘<em> Les actes de la conscience ne sont pas des jugements mais des sentiments </em>.’”</p><p>Alexander frowns. “‘The actions of consciousness are not judgments, but sentiments.’”</p><p>“Jean-Jacques Rousseau,” John answers the silent question with a raised brow, prompting Alexander to remember the afternoon of John’s birthday when he had sought out the book from the same philosopher, and he had touched John for the first time of his own volition, witnessing with bated breath how the spirit’s eyes had regained their soul-stirring shade of blue. </p><p>“Your admiration for the man’s work knows no bound,” he says, shaking his head fondly. “Have your years spent in Geneva rendered you biased, I wonder?”</p><p>John huffs in mock-indignation. “The slander, Sir,” he replies with a smirk. “I shan’t have it!”</p><p>They chuckle at their own tomfoolery. Alexander takes care to brand John’s blithe expression into his memory along with older ones.</p><p>“I jest, of course,” Alexander says once they have settled down. “Your esteem of Rousseau’s writings bears self-evidence. The book of his you gifted me with has truly thrilled my mind more than once.”</p><p>John smiles softly. “You would have enjoyed the city, I dare assume,” he says. “The knowledge there was freely given, open to discussion and debate. The people were… Well, suffice to say I believe you would have found your verbal match splendidly among the scholars with whom I became acquainted.”</p><p>“Perhaps one day you will take me there,” Alexander says without thought, only to inhale sharply when John’s smile fades, realizing his foolish mistake. “Oh John, I–”</p><p>“Think no more of it,” John cuts in with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I cannot fault you for a harmless slip of the mind when I myself am guilty of the same.”</p><p>Alexander swallows thickly. It is becoming increasingly effortless to fall into the belief that John is in fact standing in front of him, talking, debating, smiling, laughing with him, and not, in sobering reality, his ghost. In fact, Alexander continues to wake up in the morning with the occasional thought that he has truly lost his mind and succumbed to insanity. Perhaps it is some type of loneliness hysteria after all.</p><p>“Have you been lonely, Alexander?”</p><p>Alexander startles, having not realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Pardon?”</p><p>John is now standing right in front of him, his expression softened not with pity, but with compassion. “You are not alone anymore, my friend,” he says gently.</p><p>Alexander breathes in and out deeply, his eyes stinging slightly. “What if none of this is real, John?” he whispers.</p><p>John’s lips quirk up, and he reaches for Alexander’s hand. “Does this not feel real to you?” </p><p>Alexander gasps quietly and looks down when he feels his hand carefully encased in John’s, the blissful gesture lasting no more than three seconds before brought to a halt by the unexplainable flickering of John’s state.</p><p>Still, Alexander’s smile is bright as a result, if tearful. “You are less cold than you were before,” he says then.</p><p>John nods. “I feel it.”</p><p>A beat of silence passes, during which Alexander forces himself to remain still instead of risking potentially throwing his arms around air.</p><p>“I’ve missed you, Laurens,” he whispers, throat tight. “You cannot imagine.”</p><p>John regards him for a moment, his own smile turning self-deprecating. “Perhaps this is my Purgatory, after all.” </p><p>Alexander frowns, taken aback by the abrupt change of tone. “How so?” </p><p>“Close to you,” John answers, and attempts to take Alexander’s hand again, this time unsuccessfully. “But never close enough.”</p><p>Alexander aches to hold his dearest friend to comfort them both, but knows he cannot. Instead, he allows for his heart to speak.</p><p>“Then it must be my Heaven, for I never thought to be this close to you ever again.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 13</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Has Mrs Hamilton been residing at her father’s up to present time?” John asks out of the blue one afternoon while Alexander is preparing tea.</p><p>Alexander briefly halts his movements, hand stilling around the spoon dipped in the box of green tea.</p><p>“What has drawn you to that conclusion?” he retorts, fainting nonchalance as he resumes his measurements. </p><p>John comes to stand next to him, casually pushing around the lid of the box with semi-success. “I find it odd not to detect a single trace of her around the house,” he answers. “Nor anything remotely resembling a woman’s unique domestic touch, for that matter.” </p><p>“Have you been snooping around in my things, Sir?” Alexander attempts to tease as a way to veer away from the subject. But John ignores the bait.</p><p>“There is no need, as it is quite apparent,” he points out, obviously undeterred. “Surely she must be eager to begin cohabitation with you, as your wife.”</p><p>Alexander glances at him then, surprised and displeased by the hint of bitterness in John’s tone.</p><p>“No,” the younger man answers tightly. “I doubt she is, given that she is not my wife. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”</p><p>John frowns, discarding the lid to focus his attention fully on Alexander, losing all pretence at vague curiosity. “You are separated?”</p><p>Alexander scoffs, picking up the lid to close the box and places it back in its place. “To be separated, one must have been married first.” </p><p>John follows him as he moves around the kitchen to set the water on the stove. “I do not understand.”</p><p>Alexander tsks, renewing his attempt at throwing the other man a bait. “I thought you more clever than this, Laurens. Lee himself would have figured it out by now.”</p><p>“Were you not engaged to be wed to a certain Schuyler sister last we spoke?” John presses, uncharacteristically continuing to brush off the slight against his person. </p><p>Alexander finally looks at him properly, into his blue eyes, and sees nothing but curiosity, confusion in them, and, dare he imagine it, hope.</p><p>“Indeed I was,” Alexander answers, his voice softening, mentally scolding himself for his close-minded reaction. After all, it is a fair question to ask from one friend to another, especially when said friend is roaming the halls of the other’s home as a revenant. </p><p>“What changed?” John asks just as softly, perhaps sensing the change in Alexander’s mindset.</p><p>Alexander sighs, shifting his gaze to another point in the kitchen, a lingering feeling of shame thumping in his chest. “We parted ways.”</p><p>They remain tensely silent for a long minute, awaiting the water to come to ebullition. </p><p>“Do you recall Von Steuben’s drills?” John suddenly asks, his voice light once more. </p><p>“Yes,” Alexander answers, a playful smirk twitching on his lips. “He had the most <em> fascinating </em>way with words.”</p><p>“That he did, Sir,” John chuckles. “After all, who could forget his infamous, sphinxlike motivational inducements?”</p><p>Alexander and John look at each other, eyes gleaming with reminiscing mirth, matching grins forming.</p><p>“<em> Goddamn de gaucheries of dese badauts </em> <em> ! </em>” they exclaim simultaneously, adopting an exaggerated Prussian accent.</p><p>They laugh whole-heartedly, the tension from the previous conversation thus dissipating. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 19</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Mrs Ruth Kettler, formally Edelstein, has been under Mr. Hamilton’s employment shortly after his move to Philadelphia, nearly a year ago. Mr. Hamilton is a kind man, she thinks, despite his loneliness, as she knows of many other men far less patient and respectful due to their lack of company.</p><p>Perhaps it is the decade she holds over him in age, but she personally does not think so.</p><p>Mr. Hamilton pays her fairly, and treats her with the same courtesy –although their interactions are usually limited. The man is an exemplary gentleman towards her on the few occasions they speak, and he does not hesitate to tell her to take a break or to stay and have tea or coffee when the weather proves to be a bother.</p><p>Not once has Ruth felt the offer to be an improper one –a fact she was quick to assure to her husband after the first time it had happened. </p><p>Ruth would classify her employer as a recluse man, yet with charming manners worthy of a socialite. On the day she had been hired, she had already heard of the annulment of his intention to marry into the elite Schuyler family.</p><p>Therefore, she had originally thought this turn of events to be the cause of Mr. Hamilton’s melancholic life-style. However, it had only taken her a few days of working for him to realize that the extinguished spark behind his violet eyes was not entirely the consequence of a broken engagement, but of profound grief.</p><p>In her many years of attending to families and bachelors, particularly during this war, she had seen her fair share of men and women alike grieving a loved one.</p><p>She still wonders if Mr. Hamilton had perhaps lost a brother, or a close friend, for his gloomy and downhearted behavior had certainly indicated so.</p><p>As of late, however, her employer seems much more lively, as though the worst of his grief has finally passed. No longer does she see him reach for the drink as early as the hour of her arrival in the morning. No longer does she need to worry about his lack of food consumption and sleepless nights, as the lack of sunken shadows on his cheeks and circles under his eyes indicate no such problems anymore.</p><p>The most pleasant development Ruth now often witnesses is the sound of Mr. Hamilton’s laughter. She hears it with increased frequency, emanating from one room or the other. Although most would think it peculiar for a man to laugh all by lonesome, perhaps even label it as insanity, Ruth knows it is not so. While she does not understand the reason behind such mirth, she is certain it is not hysteria, not when Mr. Hamilton’s laughter sounds so lovely and healthy.</p><p>Regarding his one-sided conversations, Ruth could list many others, particularly politicians and lawyers, who do the same. Supposedly, it helps them gather and organize their thoughts, therefore she assigns no importance to the occurrences.</p><p>Today, as Ruth is bringing back the pot of salt to the kitchen from where she had found it on the bookshelf –another development seems to be the eccentric displacement of everyday objects–, when she hears the screech of wood above her, where Mr. Hamilton’s study is located, followed by a loud crash and a high-pitched sequence of words in an unfamiliar language.</p><p>She rushes up the stairs, hoping to find the man uninjured, is halted in front of the closed door by the oddest sounds: hysterical wheezing. </p><p>Cautiously, she knocks on the door. “Is everything alright, Sir?” she calls.</p><p>The answer she receives is nonsensical, cut and spread in between childlike laughter. Concerned that her employer might have received a shock to the head from his presumed tumble, Ruth pushes down the handle and steps in.</p><p>The sight which greets her is surely to be a memorable one; papers are scattered all over the floor, the desk has been tipped over, its content spread out unceremoniously across the carpet, and most unforgettable of all, Mr. Hamilton sitting in the middle of the mess, his reading glasses askew, and black ink running down from his hair to his face in large quantities. </p><p>The man’s continuing laughter chases away the vague thought that perhaps there has been an intruder, but Ruth nonetheless glances around the room for a possible answer to this unhinged –if admittedly comical– scene. She finds no one else in the room.</p><p>“Sir,” she tries slowly. “Are you well?”</p><p>Mr. Hamilton makes a vague hand gesture to seemingly assure her of his well-being, still unable to speak due the humorous convulsions. Ruth patiently waits, looking around the room and wondering which spot she will clean first. She ought to pick up the papers first and foremost, then the writing equipment. She might need some assistance in setting the heavy wooden desk upright. Overall, there is not much for her to do, as the papers can only be sorted by their writer.</p><p>Wiping off the ink from the floorboards will require careful attention. The stained carpet, however, is unsalvageable.</p><p>Eventually, Mr. Hamilton’s laughter subsides into breathless chuckles, and Ruth is charmed to see tears of mirth mixing with the ink on the man’s cheeks.</p><p>“M-My apologies–” he stammers out, still grinning widely. He reminds her of her sons in their younger years after having performed some harmless tomfoolery. Mr. Hamilton is only a young man himself, after all.</p><p>“What has happened?” she asks, leaning down to help him stand. The inkwell rolls off from his lap and clatters to the floor, already empty. Given the state of Mr. Hamilton and his darkened clothes, it comes as no surprise.</p><p>“Nothing–” the man giggles again. “Nothing consequential, Mrs Kettler, only–” </p><p>He dissolves into yet another chortling fit. Ruth pats him gently on the back, hoping to calm him down. However, his laughter seems to be contagious, and she finds herself huffing amusedly under her breath.</p><p>What can only be described as a snorting sound emits from behind her, startling her. She glances over her shoulder, but sees no one there. A couple of papers on the floor shift by themselves, although Ruth is certain no windows are open.</p><p>“I misjudged the proximity of the–” Mr. Hamilton attempts coherency once again between his remaining snickers. “I accidentally stumbled against the desk, you see, and next thing I knew I had landed in a war zone.”</p><p>Ruth looks around once more, and silently agrees with her employer’s current description of his study. “Indeed, Sir,” she agrees. “I be cleaning it up–”</p><p>“Nonsense,” Mr. Hamilton cuts in, finally composed although his grin remains. “You will not be the one to clean this up, Mrs Kettler.”</p><p>Ruth frowns confusingly as the man looks past her shoulder pointedly. She resists the urge to turn around, already knowing that there is no one behind her.</p><p>After some fruitless insisting on her part, Mr. Hamilton ultimately holds the last word, and thus Ruth heads for the door to resume her original duties. As she begins to close it behind her, she sees the man’s grin widen in the direction that is already out of her sight.</p><p>Ruth shrugs off the incident, but at heart is glad to have witnessed her employer enjoy him this freely, no matter how atypical the way. She swears, however, as she had climbed up the stairs, to have heard two different laughs until she had knocked on the door.</p><p>Now, she believes to hear that other voice again, incomprehensible, followed by Mr. Hamilton playfully accusing no one of being an ‘intangible poltron, whatever that may mean.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 21</em><em><sup>st</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>Alexander closes the front door behind him with slightly more force than necessary. His mood has been tethering on the edge of irritation since halfway to the market, beginning with an unexpected shower of cold rain. </p><p>Adding to that pleasant turn of events had been the realization that he had forgotten his coins at home, earning reproachful and annoyed looks from the butcher and the other customers in line. The butcher had even had the gall to openly insinuate that Alexander could not afford such a cut of meat and therefore should stop wasting his time. </p><p>After a few <em> disgruntled </em>words of his own, Alexander had stomped away. </p><p>As a final twist to an already accursed excursion, he had overheard two women speaking without discretion of Eliza Schuyler’s merciful release from her previous engagement, and how her luck had turned in her acquaintance with an honorable British Major turned ally and now already renowned as an astronomer, to whom she was to be wed come early summer. </p><p>Thus, Alexander feels it reasonable to express a light brunt of his annoyance onto the front door.</p><p>“Hamilton?” comes John’s voice from the parlor, his light footsteps creaking on the floorboard, the sound so blessedly human. “You must be drenched!”</p><p>John appears in the doorway just as Alexander sheds his soaked coat and shoes. The sight of him is as soothing as a balm against the fire stoking in his veins from today’s misfortunes.</p><p>“You are home early,” John muses idly, a quizzical tint to his voice.</p><p>“Can you blame me with this weather?” Alexander grumbles. “I rather fancy not catching a cold. Besides, I seem to have forgotten my damn elusive pouch.”</p><p>John frowns, a scowl forming on his visage. “I would think it proper of a gentleman to defray the cost should the other forget his coin.”</p><p>“Ha!” Alexander barks out. “I am afraid we do not live in such a utopian economy, Laurens. Too many would take advantage of our local vendors, I guarantee it.”</p><p>He begins to walk towards the alcohol cabinet, needing a quicker way to warm up instead of waiting ten or so minutes for the water to boil. Hopefully it will also serve to soothe away his oncoming headache.</p><p>“Why do you talk of local vendors?” John asks then, his frown deepening.</p><p>Alexander raises an eyebrow at him before opening the glass cabinet. “You were the one to bring up the subject, Laurens.”</p><p>“I did no such thing,” John counters. “I speak of conventional manners, Sir, not of a cabbage or tobacco farmer’s moral quandary.”</p><p>Alexander stops his motion to reach for the bottle of whiskey mid-air to look at John incredulously.</p><p>“<em> What? </em>” he blurts out, utterly baffled.</p><p>There is a confused silence, during which both men blink at each other blankly.</p><p>John eventually clears his throat, seemingly biting down an amused smile. “I believe we have been victims of a quiproquo,” he says slowly.</p><p>“Indeed we have,” Alexander responds, not as tickled by this situation as he would be on a better day. He picks up a tumbler from the shelf below the cabinet, and pours himself a generous glass. “Therefore allow me to appeal for your plain explanation about what the hell you are on about.”</p><p>It is now John’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I speak of your lunch plans with an acquaintance. Were that not your intention upon leaving the house earlier?”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Alexander nearly guffaws. “I was merely headed to acquire certain foods and items at the market on High Street. Whatever made you think I was meeting someone else?”</p><p>John gives a half-shrug. “I had overheard Mrs Kettler make a request of you, on Wednesday, regarding passing on her greetings to a Mister Edelstein two days from then, ergo today.”</p><p>“Joseph Edelstein is her cousin,” Alexander clarifies, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He is a vendor of kitchen appliances and such at that market. Mrs Kettler suggested I buy a new sweeper broom from him, as the current one is losing its husks.”</p><p>“Oh,” John breathes after a pause. “I see now I thoroughly misunderstood.”</p><p>He offers Alexander a small, sheepish smile, which goes unreturned. </p><p>“That you did,” Alexander says, downing his glass before discarding it. “I must change clothing. If you will excuse me.”</p><p>Before John can answer, Alexander turns on his heels and heads for the stairs towards his bedroom. Guilt steers in his chest at the way he has interacted with his dear friend. He ought not to let today’s ill-luck and the news of Eliza marrying another affect their convivial household. More specifically, he feels guilt at his dismissive treatment of John; Alexander has been unimaginably blessed by John’s return, no matter his state. In order to keep himself from acting in ways that might drive John away, he must remind himself of the devastating grief that had pierced his very soul upon realizing he would never see him again.</p><p>He would not survive John’s permanent departure a second time, of that he is certain.</p><p>By the time he has dried himself and acquired fresh clothing, his headache has increased in pressure, from one temple to another and passing by his brow in a painful fashion. Nevertheless, he heads back downstairs with the intention of apologizing to his friend.</p><p>He finds John in the living room, looking outside the window. Alexander prepares himself, </p><p>“Laurens–”</p><p>“What have you been doing this past year?” John asks simultaneously.</p><p>Alexander blinks, thrown off by the odd question. They have often talked about his time working for the newly reformed Congress and the many frustrations of doing so. “Pardon?”</p><p>“Before I returned,” John clarifies. “What did your days consist of?”</p><p>“Congress,” Alexander responds slowly. “You know this. But Laurens, I need to–”</p><p>“And after?” John presses, finally turning around, tilting his head in a way that always manages to warm Alexander’s cheeks. “Did you not socialize? With colleagues, friends… a paramour?” </p><p>At the suggestion of him having a secret lover, Alexander forgets all intent of apologizing, his previously placaded thoughts replaced by ones of indignation.</p><p>“May I ask what calls for such an interrogation?” he asks crisply.</p><p>John is either purposely ignoring or unaware of Alexander’s descending mood. “It is a straightforward question, Hamilton.”</p><p>“Then have a straightforward answer,” the younger man answers pithily. “No.” </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>Alexander sighs in exasperation. “I have been rather <em> busy </em>. As I am sure you have heard, a long-lost friend has recently returned from the dead,” he tries to joke, hoping to veer the subject towards leitivity. </p><p>John does not laugh, nor does his expression indicate that he seems favorable to dropping the matter, much to Alexander’s pique. Thus, Alexander heads to the kitchen to find a distraction. Preparing a quick en-cas currently appeals to him as well.</p><p>“You ought to broaden your circle,” John states as he follows the other man into the kitchen.</p><p>Alexander forces a tight smile as he glances back at John. “Are you attempting to rid yourself of me, Laurens?”</p><p>His smile drops as he turns his back to the other man, reaching for a cutting board and a knife before seeking out the ingredients he can use to prepare a sandwich. Some cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes should do, all of which are found in the pantry adjacent to the kitchen, its walls thinner so that the cool outside air may keep the food fresh.</p><p>“Spare me the dramatics, Hamilton,” John answers teasingly, either taking Alexander’s attempt to lighten up the conversation, or still oblivious. “I only concern myself with your life outside of these walls, t’is all.” </p><p>“Then let me spare you such unwarranted concern in return, Sir,” Alexander snaps as he spreads the foods on the cutting board, his patience nearly decimated. “I had neither the need nor time for friendly encounters when I worked in Congress, nor do I need them now.”</p><p>He begins to slowly slice the cheese, his back still turned to the blond. He takes a deep, calming breath, reminding himself that it does no one any good to succumb to pointless anger.</p><p>“Besides,” he therefore continues, “I would rather not be away from... I would rather not leave for great periods of time.” </p><p>There is a brief pause as the tension thickens. </p><p>“Because of me?” John asks quietly.</p><p>Alexander offers him half a shrug, even though the answer is a resonant ‘yes’ in his mind. “Can you blame me?” </p><p>“I do not want to turn you into a recluse,” John states. “Obsessed with a spirit of the past.” </p><p>Alexander scoffs, feeling his ire rise once more. “I have no need for another but you.” </p><p>He would rather have told John this heartfelt declaration with less bite and resentment to his tone, but his affections are being smothered by the bitter reminder that he can never truly have his John back, never truly touch him or hold him in his arms. </p><p>“You need to focus on your future,” John insists, stepping up to stand next to Alexander, in his perivision. “Do you no longer aim for greatness, for the abolition of slavery, for a legacy to leave behind? You must not waste your life on me, Alexander.” </p><p>“Ha!” Alexander barks out cynically, swallowing down a cry of grieved anger. “The pot calling the kettle black, Laurens.”</p><p>Guilt sparks within him at his own words, shamefully chosen to hurt. He forcibly swallows down an apology, instead reaching for a tomato to slice.</p><p>“And what will you do should I suddenly vanish without preamble?” John retorts, his own voice colder.</p><p>Alexander stills his hand, keeping his eyes sharply focused on the red fruit, the blade brushing its skin. “Will you?” </p><p>“I may not be able to control it should the time come,” John says slowly. “You know as much as I do about my situation.” </p><p>“Your <em> ‘situation’ </em>?” the other man scoffs, swiftly cutting a thin slice. “What a vague way to speak of ghostly resurrection.” </p><p>“My semi-existence, then,” John corrects with such nonchalance that it manages to set alight Alexander’s frustration once more.</p><p>“How can you remain so indifferent about your shortened life?” he asks through gritted teeth. “You insist on dictating how I live my own when you yourself were certainly no prime example.” </p><p>A silence befalls the kitchen, bar the sound of the knife touching the cutting board in a slow and steady rhythm.</p><p>“You were to be wed that year,” John then says, his voice quiet and resigned.  </p><p>Alexander frowns, most definitely not in the mood to talk about Eliza. “How in God’s name does that matter?” </p><p>“No one awaited me after the war,” John whispers, nearly too hushed for Alexander to hear. “Not my father, not my daughter, not Martha, not...” pause. “Not you. I could not return to you, Alexander, not anymore.” </p><p>Alexander stills, his eyes widening, his body beginning to shake. His guilt suddenly takes a much greater interest in the conversation; the implication that John had never intended to make it out of the war sends his heart into a furious frenzy, his body beginning to shake and tears of anger building in his eyes.</p><p>He puts the knife down as carefully as he can before turning to face John properly, noticing that John’s eyes shine suspiciously.</p><p>“Do you blame me for your demise in that skirmish?” he asks lowly, his guilty conscience already gripping onto that new information with an iron grip.</p><p>“No,” John answers immediately. “Of course not–” But his words fall on deaf ears.</p><p>“Is this the reason why you have returned? To haunt me?” Alexander continues, his fist clenching on the edge of the counter. “To break my heart yet again?” </p><p>“Hamilton, you are lacking sense–”</p><p>“Am I?” Alexander cuts in sharply. “Why have you returned <em> now </em>, a year after I have shed all my tears, an entire year after the all-consuming grief has finally traded its choking grip on me for a more manageable torture?”</p><p>“I have numerous times affirmed to have no knowledge of any of this,” John counters, voice wavering. “You <em> know </em>I did not ask to come here.” </p><p>“<em> Well I did </em>,” Alexander snaps, shivers running down his spine as he attempts to restrain the fire of grief from imploding. He takes a hold of the knife again to continue his chopping, more aggressively than before and hoping it will do away with the ravaging melancholy coursing through his soul.</p><p>“I <em> prayed </em> , Laurens, day and night,” he hisses, nearly slamming the knife through the soft fruit. “I prayed that the letter I received announcing your death was as much a mistake as my own at Schuylkill River. I waited everyday for a year, desperately hoping to see you standing at my door, to see your handwriting in the mail, to read about you in the paper, and would have waited years– even <em> decades </em> more.”</p><p>“I may <em> seem </em>here, but truly I am gone,” John says softly. “You must remember this.” </p><p>“I do not <em>care</em>,” Alexander grits out, his eyes burning with the strain of holding back tears. “I am not letting you go. Not again.” </p><p>“You cannot live alone in this manner, Alexander.” John steps closer, laying his hand on top of Alexander’s. “Be reasonable–” </p><p>Alexander pulls his hand away sharply and with his other rams the point of the knife down on the cutboard, the force of it making the other appliances on the counter shake. It will doubtlessly leave a sizable dent in the wood. </p><p>He spins to face John once more, fury written all over his visage, his eyes shining with an overflow of grief and regret.</p><p>“Do not <em> dare </em> speak to me about reason, John Laurens!” he roars, his voice gaining a hysteric pitch. “ <em> I </em> am not the one who got himself <em> killed! I </em>am not the one who refused to put down his weapon and act so careless of others!” He takes in a shaky breath, the air fuelling the fire inside of him as would a forest fire.</p><p>“Do you know what those bastards did to your body?” he chokes out. “There was no honor in your death, and I did not even get to– I did not choose to be alone, John, you made that choice for me!” </p><p>He storms out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into his bedroom, his vision blurry and his cheeks wet.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Alexander lies on his bed for hours, completely dressed and uncaring of the creases his position creates. At some point during his –arguably childish– sulking, he falls asleep before the sun even sets behind grey clouds, and wakes up after the moon has risen.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, John lies next to him, his eyes expressing remorse.</p><p>“I will leave you be for tonight if you wish it so,” he tells Alexander softly.</p><p>Alexander answers with a shake of his head, almost on instinct, but remains silent. They lie on their side, facing each other, gazing at each other. Alexander’s eyes are half-lidded with sleep, while John’s are gleaming with deep-rooted affection.</p><p>“I am sorry, my dear boy,” John whispers, and leans forward to deposit a feather-light kiss on Alexander’s forehead.</p><p>Alexander’s eyes flutter close, already returning to the land of dreams with a sigh. His last thoughts twirl with a peaceful whirlwind of soothed turmoil, as he half-mindedly realizes that John’s lips on his skin were neither cold nor warm, and that earlier today the spirit had referred to his house as ‘home’.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 22</em><em><sup>nd</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em></p><p> </p><p>Alexander wakes to the sound of creaking stairs outside his bedroom door. The spot next to him is empty, which indicates that John must be either going up or down the stairs.</p><p>Oddly though, the creaks continue on the same level, sometimes one step closer up, sometimes one down again. By then, Alexander deducts that John is going <em> up </em> the stairs, but in a bizarre and slow fashion.</p><p>Just under ten minutes later, during which Alexander has fallen back into a light sleep, John passes through the door, one hand raised in front of him in a cupping gesture. Alexander’s lips helplessly quirk up at the sudden grimace on John’s face, now properly intrigued when the spirit promptly traverses the door once more.</p><p>Alexander properly sits up then, leaning back against the headboard to watch the scene unfold. The handle begins to shake and rattle, eventually letting way for an opening door. Alexander says nothing, simply observes John as he hurriedly yet cautiously steps through, something now propped into his hand.</p><p>It appears to be a flower, an Aster, although many of its delicate violet petals are missing.</p><p>John seems intently focused on the task of carrying it towards the bed, and Alexander soon understands the reason behind the long ascension up the stairs and the state of the flower as the purple plant suddenly falls to the floor. </p><p>John wastes no time in crouching down, attempting to pick it back up, his hand passing through it a number of times. He does eventually succeed, and finally reaches the bed upon which he sits, and wordlessly hands the Aster to Alexander, who takes it out of his hand carefully.</p><p>His fingers brush John’s palm for the briefest second before passing through, catching the flower just in time.</p><p>“What is this?” Alexander asks gently, turning the Aster into his hand to inspect it.</p><p>John gives a sheepish half-shrug. “My attempt at gathering a bouquet,” he jokes.</p><p>Alexander is unable to resist smiling, both amused by the image of John cursing at the cold-resistant flowers in the garden, and deeply touched by the gesture and the effort it has undoubtedly taken him to collect and bring the fragile Aster.</p><p>“It is beautiful,” Alexander says, genuine despite the somewhat battered state of the flower. “Thank you, my friend.”</p><p>And just like that, with John’s relieved smile, Alexander’s heart gains a mending stitch. His eyes flicker down to John’s lips, and as he remembers the feel of them on his forehead the previous night, he wishes to have them pressing against his own as they once did during simpler times.</p><p>He refrains, not quite bold enough to try.</p><p>Instead, he rises from the bed and mindfully places the flower on the bedside table, intent on setting it to dry so that he may press it and thus keep it permanently.</p><p>Having slept in yesterday’s clothes, he decides to have a change to freshen up. A discreet glance back at John informs him that the blond remains on the bed, but turns his head away to allow Alexander some privacy.</p><p>Alexander turns away as well, beginning to undress.</p><p>“I was the one to annul my engagement with Ms. Schuyler,” he finds himself revealing.</p><p>John says nothing, letting him speak. The need to explain the reason behind his previous solitude has suddenly become strong, perhaps as a reaction to John’s apology.</p><p>“When I met her, I knew she was my chance to rise into social circles such as hers, not to mention how intelligent she quickly proved to be as well as delightful company, and, of course, beautiful,” he says with as much neutrality as he can muster.</p><p>“I knew I could love her, given time, and I wanted to,” he continues, breathing out a sigh. “I would have been a good husband and would have been honored to raise a child with such an extraordinary woman. I would have given her everything that I had, little as it was at the time, a flaw upon which she did not care to put importance.” </p><p>He pauses, remembering her reassuring dismissal of his lack of wealth, of social and military standing, of clear heritage. She had only wanted him as he had been, something only one person, one man, had said to him before.</p><p>Perhaps that had been yet another reason why he had been able to feel warm affection for Eliza Schuyler while still harboring a burning, amorous passion for John Laurens.</p><p>“With the prospect of a future such as this, with my heart well taken care of by both an incredible woman and the awe-inspiring man, I thought that finally, the bastard orphan had found his path.”</p><p>The reminiscing smile he had not felt appear on his lips slowly vanishes, replaced by a slight tremor as the memories of his world shattering with only a few words pertaining to John, a skirmish, and a fatal bullet.</p><p>“But then you… None of it mattered anymore,” Alexander forces himself to say, closing up the buttons of his fresh cotton shirt. “I knew then that my heart could never beat for another again, not even for Eliza. This blissful future perished with you, and I owed it to the best of women to set her free of the inevitable shackles of a life bound to me.” </p><p>With a quick exhale, he returns to sit on the bed to put on his socks and shoes, well aware of John’s eyes on him. </p><p>“Now she is to be wed to a more reputable man, unburdened by someone who could never have been a good husband, nor a good father, as one cannot be when the heart is bleeding and the soul is crushed,” he concludes softly. “I am happy for her, for she deserves a life where her sharp mind will not be shunned. I only wish…”</p><p>He stands, ready to start the day with his heart relieved of multiple weights. “I must admit my envy of a married life with children to raise alongside my beloved, that is all.”</p><p>He meets John’s gaze.</p><p>“I wished it as well,” John whispers. “But you have proved yet again how much of an honorable man you truly are, Alexander Hamilton.”</p><p>Alexander offers him a small smile, and together they head downstairs.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Later, as they sit together in the study, coffee on the desk and Aster laid on the windowsill to catch the few rays of sunlight to help it dry, Alexander asks a question that has been playing on his mind for weeks now.</p><p>“Do you ever regret joining the war?” </p><p>John looks up from the book Alexander has opened for him on the desk, although John insists to turn the pages himself. “Why do you ask?” </p><p>Alexander hesitates, glad to have his cup of coffee in hands to keep them from fidgeting. He does not wish to broach and mangle the subject as they did the previous day.</p><p>“You had your whole life ahead of you,” he answers softly.</p><p>John once again opts to take the light-hearted path. “How could I resist the call to glory?” he retorts amusedly.</p><p>Alexander remains serious, glancing at the Aster to keep himself level-headed. He mentally notes to begin dry-pressing the flower by tonight. “The price of it was too high,” he says meaningfully.</p><p>“You are one to talk,” John reminds him with a raised eyebrow. “Need I list your own countless and reckless exploits?”</p><p>“But I knew my limitations,” Alexander counters swiftly. “For I intended to live, unlike you.”</p><p>John looks down at the book in front of him for a moment, before closing it. The controlled act in itself tells Alexander that perhaps John is not as nonchalant about the subject as he portrays himself to be.</p><p>“I apologize, Laurens,” Alexander says, scolding himself for his recurring lack of tact. “I should not have phrased it so crudely.”</p><p>John remains silent for another few seconds before sighing, his shoulders slacking with resignation.</p><p>“I almost refrained from joining the army, did I ever tell you?” he asks, indeed surprising Alexander with this new and unexpected information. “When the Revolution started, I had yet to complete my studies in London, and had plans to return to Geneva afterwards, perhaps permanently.”</p><p>Alexander had known about John’s youthful years spent in Europe, although he had not been aware of his lack of desire to return to America.</p><p>“However, as I heard the call to arms of my country, I became torn,” John continues. “I was overcome with hesitation; a flaw I am certain you would not associate with me.” </p><p>Alexander cannot deny the truth behind that statement, given how John was quite renowned for his bravery and quick-acting. </p><p>“Why did you hesitate?” he asks, most definitely curious about what could possibly make this man hesitate.</p><p>John’s lips tug into a reminiscing smile, and, if Alexander is not mistaken, bitter as well. “I was in love,” John answers softly. “Or so I thought.” </p><p>Alexander frowns at that, jealousy flaring in his gut without justification. “With Martha?” he questions as his mind immediately turns to the woman whom John had married around those years. “You told me that you–” </p><p>“That I never truly loved her?” John cuts in, finishing the other man’s question. “I did not lie to you on this.” </p><p>Possessively, relief caresses Alexander’s heart at the renewed assurance, although that leaves another, perhaps even less pleasant question to be answered. “Then who was it that made you so hesitant?” </p><p>John’s smile veers from one of regret to one of fondness as he tilts his head at Alexander. “Why do you ask me these questions as though you are running out of time?”</p><p>Alexander resists the urge to groan aloud. “Why can you never give me clear answers? Can you not see that we–”</p><p>He pauses as a sudden lump of grief clogs his throat. He swallows around it. “Can you not see that we have already run out of time?” </p><p>John sighs, his smile dropping entirely. He places his hand atop Alexander’s on the desk, where it remains solid for a couple of seconds –just long enough for John to move his fingers across the back of the warm hand under his. </p><p>“I was never meant to live long, Alexander,” he says as though the matter is a fact written in stone and not a horrifying statement. “You remember my... personal struggles, do you not?” </p><p>Alexander nods, recalling the many times John had been overcome with unexplainable and seemingly unprompted bouts of melancholy, which he would hide from him at first before eventually sharing –with no small amount of insistence on Alexander’s part. </p><p>It had torned at his heart to witness this illness of the mind claim his beloved John all too often as it stripped him of his sense of self-worth and desire to live. While Alexander, untrained in such matters, had been ultimately unable to banish it completely, he had always kept a sharp eye for any symptoms, any changes in John’s usually confident and warm behavior. </p><p>He had therefore been ready and eager to lend his support as much as he could when it would inevitably make a reappearance, whole-heartedly unwilling to let John suffer through it alone.</p><p>“And I told you I would help you through each and every one of them,” Alexander reminds him. “I promised you I would not let this melancholy guide your life.” </p><p>John chuckles, the sound humorless. “An honorable oath, but ultimately fanciful,” he says self-deprecatingly. “We went our separate ways. You were on the honorable path of becoming a husband, and soon enough, a father.”</p><p>“I could have loved you both,” Alexander immediately affirms, knowing what John is insinuating. “Eliza– Ms Schuyler would have understood, remarkable woman that she is.” </p><p>John shakes his head. “You tell yourself lies,” he says. “For which I cannot blame you as I once did the same.” </p><p>He holds up his hand to prevent Alexander from protesting again, continuing. “We both knew, deep down, that such an arrangement would never have worked, regardless of the slim possibility of a wife accepting the presence of her husband’s <em> male </em>lover into the household.” </p><p>“We could have tried,” Alexander responds in a whisper. “I never wanted to be parted from you, Jack.”</p><p>John smiles again, this time with sad affection. “You needed to climb, Alexander. I would have only held you down.” </p><p>“That is simply not true!” Alexander responds hotly. He briefly closes his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath before continuing. “You would have only made me stronger. I have been admitted to the New York bar faster than most, yet have found none to fight with me on the racial injustice. I became an elected representative for Congress on my own, yet my work bore no edible fruits.”</p><p>It is Alexander’s turn to lay his hand on top of John’s, delighted when it does pass through.</p><p>“I can rise up on my own, John, but only with you at my side could I have made a difference in the world,” he states with ardor. “Together, you and I would have been unstoppable.” </p><p>John turns his hand so that their palms might touch, remaining silent until they no longer can.</p><p>“I received your letter,” he then says, the declaration momentarily throwing Alexander into confusion. “The one about joining you at Congress.” </p><p>Alexander inhales sharply, his eyes rapidly welling up with relieved tears; John had read his letter, his very last words to him, his plea to return to him. He finds his response stuck in his throat.</p><p>“I did take your words into consideration, about ‘quitting my sword and putting on the toga’,” John continues, his gaze locked with Alexander’s, thus undoubtedly aware of the emotions welling in the younger man’s eye. “However, as I said, I knew I had no right to claim a place at your side.”</p><p>Alexander is torn between the desire to shake some sense into John, or slap him for his stupidity. “How could you have thought this when you knew very well the place you had already laid claim to in my heart?”</p><p>“A place I had unjustly occupied,” John counters stubbornly. “Nevertheless, I wanted to come to you because of that letter, if only to say goodbye properly without all the bitterness I shamefully expressed when we parted.” </p><p>“Why did you not?” Alexander asks quietly, already suspecting the answer.</p><p>Indeed, John’s lips quirk up, his own eyes gleaming. “I was in love, this time I knew.”</p><p>Alexander makes no further attempt to keep the tears from sliding down his cheeks.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> November 28</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em></p><p> </p><p>The first snow of the upcoming winter falls that morning, slow and light. The two men watch the flakes twirl down from the white sky and melt upon contact with the garden grass, sitting on the couch they have turned to face the bay windows. They sit closely, thighs touching, leaning against the other carefully. </p><p>Something has shifted since their talk nearly a week prior; they have regained the quiet intimacy they had once shared, relieved of their burdens of unspoken words –sentiments that should have been expressed long before that fateful August day.</p><p>Alexander feels at peace in that moment, nearly dozing off from the comfort that has settled deep in his bones. There is no need for conversation then, both men simply enjoying each other’s company and the tranquil show of one of nature’s beauties. </p><p>Indeed, the only element keeping Alexander awake is undoubtedly the hand on his thigh, occasionally passing through it, and otherwise simply placed loosely but –if he is not mistaken– possessively. </p><p>After all, how is Alexander expected to allow his mind to turn off for a nap when it is continuously nudged by small but insistent sparks of desire?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> December 31</em><em><sup>st</sup></em> <em> 1783 </em> </p><p> </p><p>The month of December passed by without much excitement, which suits Alexander just fine. The snow thickens and lays claim to the streets, a fact which Alexander attempts to use against John’s renewed insistence that he go out and <em> do something </em>.</p><p>Indeed, the matter of Alexander’s self-imposed reclusion resurfaces at the beginning of the month when he announces to John his plans to delay the move to New York, with the explanation that until John can take a step outside the property, he will remain here as well.</p><p>The subject thankfully does not result in an argument this time, only a conversation between one logic-ridden spirit and a stubborn man. In the end, they manage to come to an arrangement: Until Alexander decides it is time to relocate to New York to begin an official law practice, he is to attempt building bridges and dust off his skills here in Philadelphia by lending a hand where he can. </p><p>John negotiates for two outings per week from mid-afternoon to early evening; Alexander insists petulantly that it is too much. A week later, much to John’s smug satisfaction, the two agreed-upon days turn into three.</p><p>Alexander’s guilt at spending increasingly more time away from John disperses from the sight of his friend greeting him at the door with a proud grin.</p><p>In turn, he once comes home with a large pad of paper which he hands to John, encouraging to use it at his leisure, given the substantial improvement of his capacity to remain tangible for longer periods of time. John regards him with such an intense gaze of gratitude, that Alexander’s knees nearly give out from under him</p><p>As it so happens, Alexander finds himself flustered with growing frequency when it comes to John, now unable to pass off the once-occasional wandering thoughts as meaningless flukes.</p><p>He desires to kiss John, undeniably so. He catches himself staring at the other man’s lips too often, and does not fail to notice the reciprocity of that gaze as well. Yet neither man attempts the gesture. In Alexander’s case, he dares not, held back by the lingering fear of losing what he has so blissfully regained. What if it be as a fairytale, where a kiss be the shattering element to the illusion?</p><p>John’s reasons for restraint –unless Alexander is completely misreading him– are unknown to him. </p><p>However, abstention from this delicate act does not, incredulously, disallow the two men from acting coyly around each other, flirting without shame as there is no one around to witness such displays.</p><p>By the end of the month, the built-up physical tension reaches near its peak for Alexander, causing him to wake up most morning with a tent in his nightgown, as though he were an accursed teen again. Whether or not John notices his predicaments on the mornings when he happens to lie on the bed next to Alexander remains undiscussed.</p><p>Regardless, Alexander gives his body no attention, for he has neither the privacy nor the desire for his own helping hand.</p><p>New Year’s Eve proves to be a quiet affair between John and Alexander. Mrs Kettler was given the last day of 1783 off to spend with her family, allowing for John to help Alexander make dinner in the small ways he can early in the afternoon.</p><p>That evening, Alexander pours them both a glass of his finer whiskey, even though John does not consume any food or drinks. John jokes that it is only an excuse for Alexander to drink both glasses, which Alexander unabashedly does not deny.</p><p>Nearing midnight, they sit in the parlor, reminiscing on a particular New Year’s celebration in the army when the Marquis had somehow managed to unearth multiple bottles of Madeira, resulting in some memorable shenanigans among the aides and their favorite Frenchman.</p><p>“And do you recall,” Alexander asks between chortles. “Washington stepping into the barn just as the Marquis were acting out some French burlesque play?”</p><p>“Good God, how could I ever forget?” John exclaims joyously, slapping the armrest of his chair. “The look on the General’s face could have set fire to the entire British army itself!”</p><p>“Our poor Marquis,” Alexander shakes his head fondly, his grin wide. “No man should ever bear such a gaze from the Old Fox, much less whilst wearing a makeshift shawl instead of his coat and dramatically imitating a moaning woman in the name of theater.”</p><p>“Oh, I doubt he minded it too much,” John muses.</p><p>“The Marquis was ordered to come speak to him privately before midnight!” Alexander counters. “Any sane man would cower.”</p><p>“None can claim the Marquis de Lafayette to be a sane man,” John says fondly. “Can you attest to witnessing even the slightest hint of gloom upon his expression after the General’s departure?”</p><p>Alexander shakes his head. “Of course not,” he answers. “He very well knew that Washington could never truly scold him.”</p><p>John hums, his lips quirking to the side mischievously. Alexander finds it instantly suspicious, his eyes narrowing in amusement.</p><p>“Are you withholding information from me, John Laurens?” he asks with mock-offense. “For shame, Sir!”</p><p>John now openly smirks. “Why, me?” he says innocently. “Naturally not.”</p><p>He winks at Alexander, unknowingly –or perhaps just so– causing the younger man to blush. “Now, my friend,” Alexander chides playfully. “How may I ever coax you into revealing your knowledge?”</p><p>John leans on his armrest, closer to Alexander, and gestures for him to lean over as well. Alexander complies, feeling somewhat giddy as though they are two school children exchanging a secret.</p><p>If John were breathing, Alexander would surely feel it in his ear from their closeness.</p><p>“You must <em> make me, </em>my dear boy,” John whispers to him in a purr.</p><p>Alexander freezes, eyes wide and body tensing with sudden shivers. Nevermind the comparison to school children; they are now acting as two illicit lovers exchanging the location for their next rendez-vous, or perhaps even heated words unable to be contained.</p><p>He swallows and leans back slowly, incapable of meeting John’s gaze, for he fears finding either his sparking arousal mirrored in his eyes, or unreciprocated. Either possibility is nerve-wracking, and therefore he clears his throat and stands, grabbing his empty glass.</p><p>“Ah, I should–” he stammers, already turning to walk towards the low cabinet. “I cannot have an empty glass minutes away from the new year.”</p><p>His excuse to create some distance between them is flimsy at best, and obvious at worst. Nevertheless, he keeps his back to John while he pours himself another drink with shaking hands. He opts to remain there a while longer in an attempt to calm his drumming pulse and the embarrassing heat under his skin.</p><p>His thoughts are a whirlwind of confused desire; on one hand, it is understandable to feel such attraction to John, given their past together and their renewed closeness in the present. On the other, John is not entirely here, only his spirit. But how can Alexander be blamed for having such carnal envies when the man whose body he used to know so well seems as human as himself? Furthermore, John appears to be encouraging this dance, and although Alexander cannot be completely certain of the intention behind such incitement, he does know that he is too weak to resist it.</p><p>How he remembers the feeling of John’s hands roaming over his body, his lips exploring every inch of him with delicate yet fiery passion. Deft fingers in his hair, pulling perfectly, or around his throat, squeezing just right. They slotted perfectly with one another, their movements matching as elegantly as the most complex ballet.</p><p>Lost in his heated thoughts, Alexander luckily forgets to pick up his glass, as he turns around and comes face to face with the object of his ardent desires standing merely two feet away, startling him.</p><p>“Laurens, what are you–” </p><p>“What torments your mind so <em> fervidly </em>, Alexander?” John asks in a low voice, taking a step closer.</p><p>Alexander swallows thickly, gaze flickering between John’s gleaming eyes to a random spot in the room. He clears his throat. “Nothing of import, I assure you.”</p><p>John’s lips pull into a knowing smirk. “Really now?” he purrs, stepping yet again closer, nearly closing the distance between them as their chests brush. “There is no need to lie, my dear boy.”</p><p>Alexander shudders at the epithet, uttered in that tone. His eyes flutter shut while his hands close around the edges of the low cabinet behind him in a desperate attempt to keep himself from succumbing to John’s words.</p><p>He nearly slams back into the furniture when he feels a weight on his waist, opening his eyes to see the delightful sight of John’s hand on him, holding him gently yet possessively.</p><p>“John, we cannot possibly–” Alexander tries, his voice uneven and devoid of any real conviction. </p><p>John hushes him, raising his other hand and lightly placing the tip of his fingers around Alexander’s bobbing throat. </p><p>“What prevents us?” he asks in a conspiratorial whisper, sliding his hand down to the flustered man’s hip. “There is none but you and me, we need not hide anymore.”</p><p>Alexander whimpers, aching to lurch himself at John and kiss him until his breaths have filled the spirit’s lungs entirely with his love and his life.</p><p>“I have missed your touch, Jack,” he whispers, his already weak resolve breaking.</p><p>“I want you, Alexander,” John declares with both passion and loving softness. “I wish to see you unravel under my touch as you once did.”</p><p>Any half-hearted rebuttal happily dies long before his mind can even complete the thought as John’s thigh suddenly presses between his legs, nudging the growing manifestation of Alexander’s desires.</p><p>“<em> Christ </em> …” Alexander rasps out, bucking into the heavenly pressure. “ <em> John </em>…”</p><p>“I know, my dear boy, I know,” John says with no small amount of adoration. “I cannot yet focus enough to give you what you need, only this.” </p><p>He shifts his leg just so, earning a breathless moan from Alexander. He rewards him with delicate trailing fingers across his throat and a squeeze to the hip. The cycle repeats, slowly at first, laden with Alexander’s sounds of mounting pleasure and John’s lust-filled encouragements, half-lidded gaze locked with a fervent one.</p><p>Soon enough, Alexander is rutting against John’s leg, his hands white from their death-grip on the low cabinet, head tilted back to allow John’s fingers more access to his pulsing skin, eyes tightly shut in anticipation of his approaching completion.</p><p>“<em> J-John, </em> ” he whines, so close now. “I– <em> Ah </em> … I am nearly– <em> Mhm... </em>”</p><p>John chuckles lowly, clearly delighted about the state of the tongue-tied man under his hands. He leans his head closer, tilts it, and gently nips at the tip of Alexander’s ear.</p><p>“<em> Then let go, my dear boy </em>,” he whispers huskily.</p><p>With a choked keening sound, Alexander does, spilling his pleasure zealously into his breeches as white spots burst behind his eyelids, nearly rendering him unconscious.</p><p>The force of his orgasm is unlike any he has felt in years, given not only his abstinence this past year, but also the meaning of it; John is back in his life in almost every way, with each passing day seemingly and miraculously showing fewer chances of his departure.</p><p>His body spent and his mind swimming in bliss, Alexander is unsurprised to come to his senses and realize he is now sitting on the carpeted floor, propped up against the low cabinet. John mirrors his position on the wall next to him, albeit with more decorum. He smiles fondly at Alexander.</p><p>“You are magnificent,” he says. “Just as I remembered.”</p><p>Alexander hums, still not quite able to give a proper answer past a fond look. However, he does have enough familiar sense to glance down, expecting to find John in a similar state as he himself had been mere minutes earlier.</p><p>Noticing his glance and the confused look on the freckled man’s face, John shakes his head with a small smile. “I feel no hunger nor thirst nor the need for sleep,” he reminds the other man. “It should not be surprising to find that I cannot feel any <em> physical </em>stimulation either.”</p><p>A month prior, Alexander would have felt a painful jolt of melancholy at the reminder, but tonight he is pleased to feel simple acceptance, relieved to be able to enjoy this moment with John without the usual sense of regret and sadness.</p><p>Furthermore, he has caught the meaning behind the emphasis in John’s statement, and is most grateful for it. </p><p>“When have you acquired such boldness?” Alexander asks teasingly.</p><p>John’s smile turns soft. “If there is any wisdom I have gained from death,” he says. “Is that all may vanish too soon and leave behind too many regrets.”</p><p>The urge to kiss him surges back with a vengeance as bold as John’s earlier delightful actions, and so Alexander reaches forward for John’s hand, intent on pulling him close. </p><p>He passes right through it. </p><p>John shrugs, seemingly unaffected. “I seem to have spent as much energy as you have, Hamilton,” he teases with a wink.</p><p>Alexander allows himself a couple of seconds to descend from his disappointment.</p><p>“Mhm, so you say,” he then responds playfully, his voice wobbly from exhaustion. “Yet my defiled breeches would beg to differ.”</p><p>John smirks. “In that case, perhaps I will endeavor to rid you of them next time.”</p><p>Alexander’s heart skips a beat at the prospect of another tryst. “Perhaps you will, Laurens.”</p><p>Just then, the clock strikes midnight. Both men smile at each other.</p><p>“A merry new year to you, my friend,” Alexander says softly.</p><p>“And may many more come,” John answers in a matching tone.</p><p>Alexander finds, without an ounce of shock, that there is indeed nothing he would cherish more than to spend the rest of his life with his beloved John.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> January 8</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em> </p><p> </p><p>With the new year comes once again a new dynamic between John and Alexander, albeit still a familiar one, with a touch of unfamiliarity; never before have they had the liberty to express their desires so fully, alone in a house.</p><p>While Alexander would gladly take this golden opportunity every day, he unfortunately cannot as such acts of passion prove to drain much of John’s energy. Indeed, after their first physical reconnection on New Year’s Eve John had remained unable to touch anything, his body nearly entirely see-through for an entire week.</p><p>John had been quick to reassure Alexander that he could feel his strength returning, that he had only overtaxed himself, and told him it had been well worth the week-long intangibility.</p><p>Although he is once again as he had been on the Eve of the new year, Alexander insists that John continues to gather his strength. He will not admit it to John, but a part of him had been absolutely terrified the more days had passed without the blond man able to touch anything.</p><p>His terror has fortunately abated, but his conviction to give John more time endures. After all, he would rather have John as human as he can be without any more delicious acts of passion, than not have him at all.</p><p>He underestimates John’s devious ingenuity in face of achieving this inflamed purpose.</p><p>Alexander has only just finished getting ready and dressed for the day, buttoning up the last few buttons of his waistcoat when John passes through the door.</p><p>“Good morning, Laurens,” Alexander greets with a glance before returning his gaze to his own reflection. “Have you been waiting for long?”</p><p>John crosses the room with casual steps to stand behind the other man. “One could say that I have indeed,” he answers neutrally.</p><p>Alexander raises an eyebrow at John’s reflection, reaching for his hair brush for a final combing. “Forgive me, my friend,” he says, ignoring the ambiguous response. “What may I do to redeem myself?”</p><p>John takes another step closer. “You may disrobe for me,” he deadpans, his voice pitching lower.</p><p>Alexander’s hand stills over his hair, eyes seeking John’s in the mirror. “I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“I believe you heard me quite well, Hamilton,” he says huskily. “Shed your clothes.”</p><p>“I–” Alexander stammers in shock, even as heat flares inside his groin at John’s commanding tone. “Whatever for? I only just–”</p><p>“Because I cannot do it for you,” John cuts in with a smirk. “As per your persevered insistence.”</p><p>The heat in his veins morphs into a flame, eagerly flickering with want. “Using my own words against me, Sir?” Alexander says as his heart skips a couple of beats in anticipation. “How scandalous.”</p><p>“No more so than the beauty of your body, Alexander,” John growls in his ear, sending shivers down the other man’s spine. “Now, must I repeat myself <em> again </em>?”</p><p>Speechless, Alexander shakes his head, and reaches for a button. In the mirror, John’s smirk widens in satisfaction. </p><p>“<em> Good boy </em>,” John praises with a purr, nearly dragging out a moan from Alexander as his cock twitches with ardent interest.</p><p>The taller man steps back a few feet, giving Alexander ample space to move and John an unobscured view of him.</p><p>As Alexander unbuttons his waistcoat, he bites his lower lip to keep himself from smiling, while also knowing how this gesture affects John. Indeed, he is rewarded with a small yet nonetheless flattering groan, encouraging him to shed his clothes with precise, teasing efficiency.</p><p>As he stands bare in front of a fully-clothed John, Alexander painstakingly restrains himself from covering his semi-hardened member, his entire blushing red enough to showcase his arousal should he even attempt to hide his modesty.</p><p>John begins circling him slowly, openly taking in the display. While they were once most acquainted with each other’s bodies, it somehow feels as though John is seeing Alexander’s for the first time again.</p><p>Alexander trembles where he stands, aching for John’s touch, but knowing he cannot ask for it, not while he still recuperates. He does, however, feel the light brush of luke-warm air on his skin.</p><p>“Would you see yourself through my eyes, my dear boy,” John whispers sultrily. “You would understand why I could never resist you.”</p><p>“<em> John </em> …” Alexander exhales shakily, his cock now fully erect and begging for attention. “ <em> Please </em>…”</p><p>“Please what?” John asks deviously as he stops back in front of the other man, eyes devouring the sight of him unabashedly. “You disallowed me to touch you presently. Do you see the conundrum?”</p><p>Alexander whimpers in frustration, his toes curling on the carpet. “Do you intend to leave me like this, then?” he asks, his voice uneven with the force of his desire.</p><p>John tuts in a conscendensing manner, the sound serving to draw a pearly white bead from Alexander’s throbbing member. </p><p>“Oh, Alexander,” he chides. “Have you not figured it out yet?”</p><p>As soon as the words leave John’s mouth, it clicks in Alexander’s mind. </p><p>“You desire to…” he hesitates, the idea sounding ridiculous, but heart-stoppingly arousing. “To watch me as I… while I…” he trails off, eyes briefly flickering down at himself.</p><p>John’s smile turns hungry, almost predator-like. “While you touch yourself, yes.”</p><p>Alexander’s eyes momentarily flutter shut, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily; John’s words and their tone are nearly enough to send him into a premature release. He tries to hum his ascent, but the sound his throat produces resembles more a whine than anything else.</p><p>“Eager, are you?” John teases, seemingly pleased with the noise.</p><p>Alexander sees no point in denying the accusation, even less so when John gestures for him to lie down on the bed. They would never have done this at camp –such open debauchery–, given their urgent need for secrecy. Full privacy had been a luxury back then, and still they had not been inclined to push their luck with anything risking to be heard.</p><p>John’s hand had certainly had its use when needing to muffle Alexander’s high-pitched moans of helpless ecstasy.</p><p>As Alexander now lies on his back atop the bedsheets, seductively positioned to display himself fully in his aroused state, John moves to stand by the foot of the bed, his eyes fixated on the pleasing form of the other man’s body.</p><p>“<em> Christ </em>,” he breathes in a near growl. “You are truly sublime, my dear boy.”</p><p>Alexander lets out a whine, his cock twitching from the effect of the epithet. There is something incredibly and deliciously sinful about being the center of another’s intention, vulnerable in his nakedness while John remains fully clothed and in control of Alexander.</p><p>“Jack, <em> please… </em>” he whimpers. “I ache…”</p><p>John smirks, his gaze ravenously sliding down Alexander’s eager body, stopping for a few torturous seconds on the evidence of his desire before looking back into his dilated eyes.</p><p>“Is that so?” John teases. “Then why not ask me for what you so clearly want?”</p><p>Alexander bites his lip, his skin somehow blushing an even darker shade of red at the open implication of what he must do to finally seek relief.</p><p>“I want…” he starts, swallowing dryly. “I want to touch myself.”</p><p>John raises an eyebrow expectantly, coaxing Alexander to elaborate. Blissful embarrassment courses through the younger man’s veins as he forces the words out.</p><p>“I want to– to stroke myself to completion,” he says, each syllable damningly arousing. “I want you to watch as I– as I spill into my hand.”</p><p>John curses, clearly affected by Alexander’s words. “Then do it, my dear boy,” he orders, his voice impossibly low and dripping with desire.</p><p>Alexander does not need telling twice, taking himself in hand with a loud moan, immediately setting a pleasing pace, his leaked excitement allowing for slick, rapid movements.</p><p>John allows him this for a short time before instructing him to slow his pace, which Alexander reluctantly does with a whine. From then on, John directs his pace and movements, giving them both the illusion that <em> he </em>is the one touching Alexander.</p><p>It does not take long for Alexander to find completion, his moans having crescendoed to a chant, John’s name on his lips as he spills into his hand.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> January 11</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em> </p><p> </p><p>With Alexander’s increased fervor to write page after page on the subject of his clients’ defense and John’s temporary incapacity to take away his ink to coax him to sleep at a somewhat decent hour, Alexander had not hesitated to use that advantage.</p><p>Or so he had attempted.</p><p>While John may not have been able to tuck away the instruments for Alexander’s words, he had still been capable of blowing off the candles on his desk repeatedly, earning a heartfelt groan from the redhead every time.</p><p>Tonight, after spending the day together to quietly celebrate Alexander’s day of birth, they have retired to the study. Alexander is once again writing, hoping that he will be afforded a few more hours in honor of this day. </p><p>The clock has recently struck eleven, and John has yet to give him a warning as he tends to do when approaching midnight. Instead, he continues to watch him from across the desk silently, before eventually clearing his throat.</p><p>“Do you remember the moonless nights in the garret?” he asks.</p><p>Alexander hums distractingly in acknowledgment, not halting his quill.</p><p>“Some nights would shroud us in such complete darkness,” John continues casually. “That we could explore and map each other’s bodies with our hands only.”</p><p>Alexander’s hand slowly comes to a stop on the paper, finally looking up at the spirit. He has just enough time to notice John’s smirk before he disappears.</p><p>However, Alexander knows he is still here. “John?” he calls out worriedly. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>The candle on his desk blows out, causing Alexander to groan.</p><p>“Really, Laurens?” he chides. “It is not even midnight.” </p><p>In an odd turn of events, the other candles in the room extinguish one by one, until the room is basked in nothing but the dim moonlight shining through the window.</p><p>Alexander then feels a cool breeze on his left temple. He flinches in surprise, turning his head reflexively towards when he suspects John to stand next to him.</p><p>“John?” he tries again. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“Do you remember those nights, Alexander?” John asks, indeed sounding close to the left. “Where nothing else mattered but you, me, and how the darkness hid us from the world?”</p><p>Alexander swallows thickly, nodding. “Of course I do, Jack.”</p><p>John’s voice now emits from Alexander’s right side. “Then close your eyes,” he instructs huskily. “And place yourself there.”</p><p>Alexander obeys, and not half a minute later gasps as he feels a foreign pressure between his legs, his eyes now wide open.</p><p>“<em> John? </em>” he rasps, suddenly breathless. “What–”</p><p>But John cuts him off with a soothing hush. “Keep your eyes closed,” he tells him. “And let me take care of you.”</p><p>Alexander’s breaths turn shallow as he does as he is told. The pressure over his groin increases, his blood rushing to meet it. He whimpers, bucking into the invisible touch.</p><p>John chuckles, the sound right in Alexander’s ear and sending shivers down his spine. </p><p>“<em> Good boy </em>,” John purrs, drawing another desirous whimper from the younger man, followed by a louder whine as he feels his breeches coming undone.</p><p>Alexander slumps back against the chair as he feels his rapidly hardening cock taken out of his confines, his legs spreading in invitation.</p><p>“<em> Oh God </em> – <em> Jack… </em> ” Alexander moans as John begins stroking him slowly, gripping the armrests of his chair in a tight grip, his knuckles turning white. “I have missed this– Your touch, <em> ah </em>…”</p><p>“And I have missed holding you so,” John replies huskily. “Hot and throbbing in the palm of my hand.”</p><p>Alexander keens as John’s thumb glides over the slit of his now fully erect member, rubbing expertly and earning a bead of glistening precome.</p><p>By the time John’s has fastened his strokes to a pace meant to bring the other man to completion, Alexander is nearly off the chair, his feet pressing against the desk for leverage as he moans for more, sweat sliding down his temples.</p><p>“<em> Almost </em> – <em> Jack, I </em> – <em> Mhm… </em>” Alexander gasps out incoherently, but it is enough to let John know that his orgasm is nearing fast.</p><p>“There we go,” John growls. “<em> Make a mess of yourself, birthday boy. </em>”</p><p>Alexander needs no further prompting, spilling his seed into John’s hand and, as John later points out with amusement, over his own waistcoat.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> January 20</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>One night, Alexander wakes up with an achingly hardened member following a particularly pleasant dream. He groans, barely awake, hesitating between ridding himself of the untimely thing in a quick and efficient manner, or to ignore it completely.</p><p>“Enjoying yourself without me, I see,” John says, briefly startling Alexander, who then grunts in self-annoyance.</p><p>“You are to blame for both my body’s renewed youthful enthusiasm,” he mumbles with surprising coherence as he turns to face John, although his eyes quickly flutter close again. “And for my current predicament.”</p><p>John chuckles lightly. “Really now?” he asks amusedly. “Pray tell, what have I done to earn such accusations tonight?”</p><p>“Mhm,” Alexander hums, nearly on the verge of sleep again despite his arousal demanding attention. “West Point, seventeen seventy-eight.”</p><p>There is a moment of thoughtful silence.</p><p>“Ah. I see,” John eventually says. “You were dreaming of this?”</p><p>Alexander makes a noise of pleased confirmation. </p><p>“I see,” John repeats in a contemplative voice.</p><p>A couple minutes later, the mattress shifts, prompting Alexander to veer away from sleep’s gentle siren call, cracking open one eye. He is confused when he sees John walking away.</p><p>“Wh’re you going?” he attempts to ask, unwilling to sit up due to his exhaustion and the persistent throb between his legs.</p><p>“I will be right back, my dear,” John tells him, and crosses the door out into the corridor.</p><p>Alexander is unsure whether he falls back asleep for a short while, or simply blinked, although he is certain that the same salacious dream is demanding an encore.</p><p>However, before his mind can indulge itself, he suddenly becomes aware of a cold draft on his legs. He blindly reaches for the covers, but can only grasp at air. He twists onto his stomach as he attempts to find a piece of the blanket, and instead finds himself moaning sleepily as his stubbornly hard cock rubs against the mattress.</p><p>“Alexander?” John’s voice calls softly next to him. “Do you care to guess what I have found?”</p><p>Alexander keeps his eyes closed this time, his hips shifting minutely to seek some friction. “Enlighten me,” he grumbles. </p><p>“Olive oil.”</p><p>A couple beats of silence pass.</p><p>“Whatever for?” Alexander asks. “And could you hand me the blankets, please?”</p><p>“If I did that,” John answers with a mischievous lilt to his voice, ignoring Alexander’s first query. “Then they might get stained.”</p><p>Alexander sighs. “As you can surely discern, I am in no capacity to understand your riddles, my friend.”</p><p>“Then allow me to show you,” John replies with a suspicious purr, which, Alexander will later think, had not even been the first indication of his intentions.</p><p>He frowns as he feels his nightgown slowly caressing his thighs and upwards. He emits a small squeak of surprise when the piece of clothing passes over his backside, exposing his rear.</p><p>His cock, however, twitches with great interest, the gears finally getting back to work in his mind. He finally opens his eyes to peer over his shoulder at John, who smiles seductively at him. </p><p>Next to the spirit lies the very same object which had just had the role of honor in his earlier dream.</p><p>“Is that...” he trails off, heart beginning to beat faster in hopeful anticipation.</p><p>“Your foil,” John finishes. “Why, yes, it is.”</p><p>A moan crawls its way out of Alexander’s throat breathlessly as he remembers that infamous day at West Point: He and John had engaged in a friendly fencing match in the surrounding woods, away from any curious eye. Alexander had been unfamiliar with the sport, while John had had years of practice.</p><p>Naturally, John had attempted to teach the other man, but in the end, their educational duel had turned into an outright disgraceful game, ending with both men bent in half with uncontrollable hilarity.</p><p>However, as Alexander had found himself on his back with the tip of John’s foil pointed at his throat in an undeniable victory, the playful competitive atmosphere had suddenly taken a drastic turn towards an overwhelming lust.</p><p>Neither man could claim to ever have imagined using a fencing foil in such sinful ways before that day.</p><p>“Christ, Laurens,” Alexander croaks. “You seek my demise.”</p><p>John hums, uncorking the jar of oil. “What do the French call it?” he muses as he tips some oil onto his index and middle fingers. “<em> La petite mort? </em>”</p><p>Alexander shudders, rubbing himself down on the bed with more conviction. “John, it has been so long…”</p><p>John bends over and deposits a light kiss at the bottom of Alexander’s spine, causing the younger man to helplessly twitch. “I know, my dear boy, I will be gentle,” he reassures him –not that Alexander ever believed he would not be, unless specifically asked.</p><p>In response, Alexander curves his back to eagerly offer his backside. “Then please,” he whispers needily. “Touch me.”</p><p>With an appreciative groan, John sets to work, stretching his lover carefully with one, two, three fingers before pulling them out at Alexander’s desperate behest under the threat of unraveling too soon.</p><p>John generously coats the pummel and grip of the foil with the slick substance before positioning it at Alexander’s twitching entrance. He awaits the trembling man’s whimpered plea for the lewd act, and slips the oiled object into him.</p><p>From then on, both a jar of olive oil and –most importantly– the foil remain in their bedroom.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> January 25</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“At least show yourself and fight me like a man, Laurens!” Alexander shouts, his face split into a maniacal grin as he frantically looks around the snow-covered garden, the multitude of footsteps resembling a labyrinth. “Come on out, you motherf–!”</p><p>He is not quick enough to dodge the snowball thrown onto the side of his jaw, effectively knocking him off his feet and sending him face-first into the cold white powder.</p><p>A newly-visible John laughs hysterically from his spot by the bushy shrub of currently-absent lavender, bent in half as he revels in his deadly accurate aim. </p><p>Alexander, now soaked and red-faced, sputters out the snow from his mouth as he raises himself to his knees, before looking at John with vindictive glee.</p><p>Spirit or not, John never stood a chance.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> January 29</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Laurens?” Alexander finally decides to call from his seat by the fireplace. “Are you… You have been rather pensieve these past couple of days. Is something the matter?”</p><p>John tears his gaze away from the window, where he had been staring at the pouring rain for the better part of an hour –at least as far as Alexander knows, given he had returned home only an hour ago.</p><p>“It must be the weather,” John replies, his voice sounding unequivocally tired. “Three consecutive days of constant rain generally makes for an unpleasant atmosphere, does it not?”</p><p>While the man does make a fair point, Alexander is far from convinced. After all, he already knows what this is. He sets his book down and stands from his chair, moving to sit next to John on the divan. He purposely avoids any physical contact, remembering that in such moments, touch is not always necessarily welcomed.</p><p>“Jack,” he says softly. “Will you talk to me?”</p><p>John looks at him briefly before sighing and shifting his gaze back out the window. After a few long seconds pass without a word, Alexander begins to fear that John has already shut him out.</p><p>“It is only…” John suddenly starts, then pausing with hesitation. “Ever since the first snow, I have been hearing the neighboring children’s laughter in the streets, and I… I am reminded of Frances, as well as others whom I have disappointed.”</p><p>Alexander breathes out in quiet relief at John’s willingness to share his thoughts. “Your daughter?”</p><p>John nods, his brow furrowing. “I have… I have selfishly made her an orphan at the fragile age of five,” he says, his voice laced with shame and regret. “I left for Charleston two months before her birth, and have denied every one of Martha’s attempts to build familial bridges.”</p><p>“It is not too late to start constructions,” Alexander suggests lightly, careful not to make the idea seem like an obligation.</p><p>However, judging by the sudden clench in John’s jaw, he has still chosen the wrong thing to say. </p><p>“I am <em> dead </em> , Hamilton,” he snaps. “How could I ever raise a child when I am tethered to this accursed state of existence between the dead and the living? I do not even have a <em> fucking </em>heartbeat.”</p><p>A heavy silence befalls the room, and Alexander looks away, refraining from snapping back that he too is all too aware of John’s death.</p><p>He can never dare to imagine what John must be feeling, both regarding his spiritual form, and his recurring melancholy. </p><p>Growing up in the Nevis, Alexander had been raised around many sodomites, and had thus developed a quicker acceptance of his own appreciation of the male figure. </p><p>John had been raised to believe people like him were diseased and doomed for an eternity in Hell.</p><p>When faced with tragedy, Alexander had had two choices: fight or die. And so he had fought, loudly and without compromise, for he knew that his words, carved from a hurricane of emotions, were his strongest weapons. </p><p>John had been raised to be quiet and to conform, never to express anything that could cause damage to the family legacy.</p><p>Both men, born and raised in polar opposite worlds, both left wanting for a purpose. In war, they had found each other. Their personalities had clashed at first, until eventually, they had understood. </p><p>Alexander had been the inspiration John had needed to summon his bravery; the very air allowing his lungs to finally breathe and fight. </p><p>John had been the eye of Alexander’s hurricane; quiet but ferocious, teaching him to allow logic to overrule his emotions when the time demanded it.</p><p>They had completed each other.</p><p>Alexander looks back at John, heart clenching at the sight of twin tears silently sliding down his lover’s cheeks.</p><p>“Forgive me, Alexander,” John whispers before the younger man can speak. “It seems that although I have died, my melancholy did not.”</p><p>John’s hand, flat between them on the divan, inches closer to his. Their knuckles brush, and it is as loud an invitation as any; Alexander is more than happy to close the distance, gently linking their fingers together. </p><p>“I should know better than to allow it to control me by now,” John continues then. “I apologize for speaking so unfairly, for you have done nothing wrong.” </p><p>Alexander squeezes his hand in appreciation. “Neither have you, John.”</p><p>“I have,” the blond insists. “I was too cowardly to face my youthful foolishness and continued to hurt the people I claimed to care about.”</p><p>“By youthful foolishness, do you mean accidentally impregnating your late-wife?” Alexander asks, internally cringing at the less than tactful phrasing.</p><p>Nevertheless, he knows he will hit a dead-end by attempting to convince John that he had only been understandably frightened and that the war would have certainly gone differently without his bravery to lead them to victory.</p><p>John smiles bitterly, seemingly unbothered by the push. “Lying with a woman in the first place,” he specifies. “When I believed it was the only way to cure myself of this disease.”</p><p>“Your melancholy,” Alexander says, but is surprised when John shakes his head.</p><p>“The sin of sodomy,” he deadpans.</p><p>Alexander tenses instinctively, disheartened at hearing John refer to their love as a sin, if indirectly. He knows that, when still alive, John had come a long way since the guilt of their first kiss to the bitter ending of their last. However, it remains nonetheless doleful to hear of his lover’s past self-classification, and the way it clearly continues to affect him today.</p><p>Something in Alexander’s mind suddenly clicks, the timeline aligning with what he now recalls to have learned from their heartfelt conversation after their disagreement in November.</p><p>“Were you in love with another man before meeting Ms Manning?” he asks, hoping he has not butchered the puzzle.</p><p>John exhales a huff of fondness. “Your mind is sharp, Hamilton,” he says. “As always.”</p><p>Alexander does not question him further, leaving it to John to decide whether or not to continue on this subject. They remain in silence for a few minutes, watching the rain fall.</p><p>“His name was Francis Kinloch,” John eventually admits. “Our... families ran in the same social circles in South Carolina.”</p><p>Alexander does not fail to notice John’s slight hesitation at the vague mention of his family. His father, Henry Laurens, is a topic Alexander had long since learned to avoid with John. From the few details he had caught from John’s usually inadvertent revelations, Alexander had quickly come to dislike the Laurens patriarch.</p><p>“We became quite close while we both lived in Geneva,” John continues. “And in retrospect, I believe our affections for the other had always differed.”</p><p>John closes his eyes, sighing once more. “Perhaps he could have loved me as I thought to have loved him, with time,” he muses quietly. “If we had not been both so stubborn in our opinions.”</p><p>Alexander takes in the new information with a calmness he did not possess during their war years –his reaction to learning of John’s family in London had been both justified and also somewhat petulant.</p><p>“Do you regret the end of your relationship, then?” he asks softly.</p><p>“I regret how we ended it with such resentment,” John answers, opening his eyes. “But not that it ended.”</p><p>John turns to full face him, his shining blue eyes boring into Alexander’s violet ones.</p><p>“But Alexander, you must know,” he says solemnly. “I eventually realized that I had never been in love with Francis, for I only learned the true meaning of the sentiment while knowing you.”</p><p>Alexander swallows thickly, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird. “Oh, Jack,” he breathes, bringing the spirit’s hand up to kiss it, both knuckles and palm. “How I wish you had told me this before, if only to hear you repeat it every day.”</p><p>John’s answering smile is beautifully genuine. “Every day?”</p><p>“For the rest of my life,” Alexander responds earnestly, and kisses each of John’s fingers.</p><p>John’s eyes fixate on his hand even after the lips have gone, his smile turning softer. “I would have fancied marrying you, you know.”</p><p>Alexander inhales sharply, unable to deny having thought similarly many times in the past. “Would you, still?”</p><p>“Always,” John answers instantly. “But even had I not been shot dead, it would not have been possible.”</p><p>Alexander links their hands once again, both men silently grieving what the world has unjustly robbed them of.</p><p>“This is why I will not kiss you, Alexander,” John suddenly says, regret evident in his voice. “I fear it might break what we have found once again.”</p><p>“I admit, I also fear what a kiss would entail,” Alexander replies honestly. “Although perhaps to a different extent. But nevertheless, John, my plea from years ago still stands.”</p><p>He places one hand on John’s neck, holding it firmly. “Let me help you through your sadness,” he says. “Come what may.”</p><p>John’s eyes sparkle, and he leans forward to kiss Alexander’s forehead. “I love you, my dear boy,” he whispers.</p><p>“I love you too,” Alexander responds, his heart soaring.</p><p>While John’s melancholy may never truly vanish, ready to unexpectedly and painfully resurface, the two lovers know that together, eventually, they will succeed in appeasing it enough to understand it and live with it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> February 12</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em> </p><p> </p><p>With the month of February comes the gentle thawing of the ice on the street pavements, followed by the first glimpse of warmer sunlight. It seems the cold months will not spread too long this year, a prediction for which Alexander is thankful.</p><p>All is well in the Hamilton-Laurens household; the successes of Alexander’s occasional consultations have caught the attention of many in the city in need of a legal defense or prosecution. While not contracted within a specific law firm, requests for Alexander’s prowess in court now often reach his letterbox, either proposing him a full-time position, or a specific case.</p><p>For his part, John is thrilled, and the two men can nearly always be found discussing and debating one of Alexander’s cases, or conversing about the projects they inspire to accomplish regarding the abolition of slavery. </p><p>Their passionate trysts continue to occur with anticipated frequency, as John now manages to recover his strength within short amounts of time. While Alexander wishes he could fall asleep in John’s arms after his mind has shut down and his body is lax, he does not complain, eternally grateful for his mere presence, tangible or not.</p><p>Thus, all is well in the home of a man and his ghostly lover. And yet, Alexander becomes somewhat restless with the feeling that something is bound to happen, the proverbial shoe close to dropping. John assures him that there is no reason anything should become amiss, and while Alexander should be inclined to trust him on any matter, the odd feeling remains.</p><p>Therefore it should have come as no surprise that, on this pleasant Thursday afternoon –during which Alexander had been raiding his study’s bookshelf in search of a specific title while John grinned mischievously as he hid said-book behind his back–, Alexander’s problems would come knocking at his door. </p><p>In the most literal sense.</p><p>“I know not if I should thank or curse whoever is at the door,” Alexander grumbles as he descends the stairs while John leans on the banister with a smug grin.</p><p>“T’is truly a shame that I cannot render you service by greeting newcomers,” John tells him from his spot on the top of the stairs with an all-too-happy tone to indicate that he does not, in fact, find it shameful.</p><p>Without turning, Alexander sends him a one-finger gesture, prompting John to playfully call out that he is going to hide the book while he is busy acting human.</p><p>With an exasperated but fond shake of his head, Alexander reaches the front door, idly wondering who it could be behind it. He specifically refrains from extending invitations to his colleagues and social acquaintances, else he would have to tell John to hide –something he is most definitely not keen on doing. </p><p>Perhaps it is the milkman, or the mailman with a special delivery –although both are unlikely given that today is not ‘milk day’, and he is expecting no packages that would require a knock at the door.</p><p>Still, he would have given better odds to a British commander standing on his doorstep than to the Marquis de Lafayette.</p><p>“<em> Petit lion! </em>”</p><p>Alexander nearly topples over from the force of the shock, held upright by the Marquis’ hand on his arm while he is given the <em> bise française </em>. </p><p>“I rejoice in our reunion, <em> mon ami! </em>” the Frenchman exclaims, just as excitable as Alexander remembers him to have been.</p><p>“How are you–” Alexander attempts to shake himself out of his stupor. “What are you doing here? I had thought your return to America to be scheduled at a later time.”</p><p>“Ah <em> oui </em>, but!” the Marquis answers with a wink. “I found reason to advance my trip, you see.”</p><p>“Did I not receive your letter announcing this decision?” Alexander muses aloud, still dazed.</p><p>“I thought it pleasant to be a surprise,” the Frenchman answers, his tone deflating slightly and his smile dropping at the lack of reciprocated enthusiasm. “Have I made an error in this?”</p><p>The hesitation in the Marquis’ voice manages to slap some sense back into Alexander. He grins widely, truly thrilled to see his dear friend again.</p><p>“Of course not!” He pulls the other man into a tight embrace. “My apologies, <em> mon cher ami </em>, you have only shocked me into forgetting to express my joy at your presence.”</p><p>As they pull back, the brilliant smile has returned to the Marquis’ youthful face.</p><p>“Please, do come inside,” Alexander steps back from the door to allow the Frenchman to step through, not yet realizing his mistake, too wrapped up in the other man’s unexpected arrival. “May I offer you a drink, Marquis?”</p><p>“After everything we have accomplished together, my friend, I would be honored to have you address me by my name,” the young nobleman says.</p><p>Touched, Alexander nods, then smirks. “Ah, but which one? I do recall hearing at least a dozen.”</p><p>The Marquis laughs, the sound melodious. “<em>Touché,</em> <em>petit lion, touché,</em>” he concedes. “Then you may use ‘Lafayette’ or ‘Gilbert’.”</p><p>“Thank you, Gilbert,” Alexander says. “In which case I insist that you call me ‘Alexander’.”</p><p>Lafayette’s grin could outshine the sun in that moment. “Alexander,” he tries out. “To answer your previous question, I in fact have a small gift for you, one of many more to come.”</p><p>He opens his coat –which Alexander now realizes is a civilian coat–, and pulls out a bottle of clearly expensive French wine, raising it high. “To celebrate the sight of you!”</p><p>Chuckling at his friend’s antics, Alexander guides him to the parlor, grabbing two glasses in which to pour the wine.</p><p>For the next hour or so, Alexander asks all about Lafayette’s voyage, his wife and children, his home, the state of France and her people, the whispers of them following the Americans to revolution.</p><p>“But that is enough about me,” Lafayette says after his retelling of his father-in-law’s poorly-hidden bitterness at his success in America. “I come here to inquire of <em> your </em> good health, <em> mon ami. </em>”</p><p>The atmosphere in the room noticeably shifts. “Then you will be satisfied to learn that I have it,” Alexander tells him. “Both in the physical and economical sense.”</p><p>Alexander expects the Frenchman to ask him about his career, but the conversation is instead veered towards a subject he had not anticipated.</p><p>“And what of your emotional health, <em> petit lion? </em>” Lafayette asks softly. “You are… well?”</p><p>Alexander frowns, thrown off by the question. “I am indeed,” he answers cautiously. “What would incite you to think that I–”</p><p>And then it finally hits him: He had tiredly and nostalgically written and sent a letter to the Marquis months ago after John had been reliving a memory in which Lafayette had been a part of. </p><p><em> John. </em> His lover, John. His <em> ghostly </em>housemate, John.</p><p><em> How could he have forgotten about </em>John?!</p><p>What if Lafayette sees him? Or worse, what if he <em> cannot? </em>The latter possibility awakens and reignites the doubts and fears of John being only a figment of his broken mind. </p><p>“Alexander?” Lafayette’s voice drags him back to the reality of the problem with a startle. “Are you alright? I have called your name <em> trois fois </em>.”</p><p>Alexander gives himself a mental shake to gather his wits, offering the Marquis a reassuring smile. “Ah, my apologies. Yes, I am well.” He clears his throat awkwardly.</p><p>Lafayette regards him carefully, and sets his glass down on the table. </p><p>“I must admit, Alexander, that your letter was cause for concern,” he says softly, as though trying not to scare him off. “It is why I come here now.”</p><p>Under the bubbling panic, Alexander has enough sense to feel touched by his friend’s concern. Although in all frankness, he can not recall what he had written in that letter, nor had he made a copy of it.</p><p>“I am honored by the sentiment, Gilbert,” he tells him as evenly as possible. “I can assure you that I am just fine, as you can see for yourself.”</p><p>“I cannot read your mind to be certain, <em> mon ami </em>,” the other man says gently. “I hope you will forgive me for asking, but I feel I must.”</p><p>Alexander tenses as Lafayette takes a deep breath while seemingly choosing his words carefully.</p><p>“Are you still affected by the death of John Laurens?”</p><p>Out of everything he had expected to hear, <em> this </em>had not been it. Alexander is torn between bursting into hysterical laughter or running out and throwing himself into John’s arms in tears.</p><p>He thankfully acts out neither option, and instead blinks wordlessly at the Frenchman for a few seconds before finally clearing his throat to break the uncomfortable silence.</p><p>“Why would I not be?” he answers, his throat constricting slightly. “You were aware of the closeness we shared.”</p><p>They share a meaningful look, a silent acknowledgement of what Alexander had long since suspected: Lafayette had known of the <em>exact</em> <em>and illicit </em>nature of his and John’s relationship.</p><p>“What you shared with Laurens was a thing of beauty,” Lafayette says earnestly. “That is why I worry so.”</p><p>Alexander frowns. “I am far from the only man to have suffered loss, my friend,” he says. “What makes mine any different?”</p><p>Lafayette smiles softly. “You forget that you have given me the privilege to know you,” he answers. “In all the years we have spent together at war, I have never seen you take a moment for yourself.”</p><p>“There was no time then,” Alexander counters. “As you said, we were at war.”</p><p>“And now that there is peace, have you allowed yourself time to grieve?” the Frenchman asks gently. </p><p>Alexander thinks back on his lethargy, the overwhelming melancholy, the drinking, the nightmares, and the sleepless nights with a critical eye; he had not quite dealt with his grief healthily, indeed. His heart had been shattered seemingly without hope for a resolution, not until John had inexplicably come back to him.</p><p>The edges of his grief had softened the more time had passed and John had regained his lively traits, both mental and physical.</p><p>“In a way, I have,” he therefore answers honestly, hoping it will soothe the Frenchman’s worries. </p><p>Judging by the persevering frown on his face and his silence, however, it is clear that his mind has not been eased.</p><p>“Gilbert, will you speak plainly?” Alexander requests. “For I must admit I do not recall the exact content of my letter to you, much less what could have been so gravely as to prompt an early visit.”</p><p>Lafayette sighs. “Very well, <em> mon ami </em>,” he says. “It is not a word nor a phrase that has jumped to my eyes, only the language of them.”</p><p>Alexander refrains from pointing out that Lafayette has spoken a French idiom unused in English, focusing instead on the meaning of his statement. He offers no comment, waiting for the Marquis to continue.</p><p>“You wrote of Laurens not– <em> ah </em>. You did not write of him as a departed companion, but as a living one.” Lafayette elaborates softly, stumbling slightly over his words. “And you spoke of memories as though you had abandoned your present happiness.”</p><p>Alexander swallows thickly. He does remember pening the letter before John had regained his mind, back when he had still had many doubts of his actual existence and his heart continued to break.</p><p>“You have traveled all this way because of a mere interpretation?” he asks with a slightly defensive tone. “Forgive me, <em> mon ami </em>, for I am certainly delighted to see you here, but why did you judge this to warrant a visit rather than just your own written response?”</p><p>Lafayette’s voice dims, as though revealing a secret. “Alexander,” he whispers. “I feared that should I wait any longer, I would yet again receive news of a close friend’s passing.”</p><p>To say that Lafayette’s declaration has shocked him would be an understatement; he is left breathless, as though the Marquis’ words have taken a solid form only to punch him in the stomach. </p><p>He watches the young nobleman sitting in front of him, the way his posture, visage, and eyes express a most profound sadness at the subject. He bows his head, attempting to formulate a response.</p><p>It is not untrue that he had considered ending his grief by unspeakable means. He had never sat down to think on the matter, but the thought had remained simmering in the back of his mind.</p><p>Alexander stands then, and the Marquis follows suit, if somewhat clumsily from the unexpected turn of events. He closes the distance between him and the Frenchman, gathering him in his arms for a reassuring embrace.</p><p>“My friend, you truly have a heart of gold,” he tells Lafayette. “I give you my word that I intend no such acts upon my person, for any such dark thoughts have vanished.”</p><p>Lafayette nearly crushes his ribcage with the strength of his deceptively slender frame. “<em> Dieu merci </em>.”</p><p>They part, and Alexander is relieved to see the other man’s expression return to gleeful, although his eyes continue to gleam with unshed tears. He can think of only one way to dry them, just as Alexander’s were.</p><p>“Perhaps I ought to show you the proof of my mended heart,” he says with a smile. “If you will follow me, my dear Marquis.”</p><p>Lafayette raises a curious brow, and wordlessly gestures for Alexander to lead the way.</p><p>Alexander guides him to the stairs. He sees John at the top shooting him an alarmed look before scurrying away from sight. As he reaches the last step, Lafayette oblivious behind him, he catches a glimpse of John as he traverses the door into the study.</p><p>He bites down a smile, thinking it will be quite the surprise for both his friends, if doubtlessly a striking one.</p><p>He stops as they reach the door behind which John has gone, and turns to give Lafayette a warning. “What you will see behind that door, <em> mon ami </em>, is nothing like you have ever seen before.”</p><p>“Should I be fearful?” Lafayette asks playfully, but nevertheless with a slight tension in his voice. </p><p>“Certainly not,” Alexander answers with confidence. “But I implore to keep your wits about you.”</p><p>Before Lafayette can question his warning, Alexander opens the door wide.</p><p>And finds no one there.</p><p>“I must say, Alexander,” Lafayette starts with amusement. “This is not a new sight for me.”</p><p>“Huh?” Alexander says intelligently, focused on looking around the room for any sign of John.</p><p>“Do you forget that I have witnessed many days of your disarranged and, how you say,” Lafayette states as he steps further into the room, careful not to walk on any book sprawled unceremoniously on the floor. “Incentive writings?”</p><p>“Intensive,” Alexander corrects absent-mindedly. “And that is not–”</p><p>Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the rustle of the curtain by the windowsill. </p><p>“Aha!” he exclaims. “There you are!”</p><p>“<em> Oui? </em>” Lafayette says with confusion as he turns to Alexander. “I have not… left?”</p><p>“No, not you, Gilbert,” Alexander responds. “John.”</p><p>There is an odd silence, even as Alexander walks towards where he knows John to stand.</p><p>“<em> Je </em> …” Lafayette starts hesitantly. “ <em> Je crois ne pas avoir entendu correctement. </em>”</p><p>“Come now, John,” Alexander ignores him to coax his ghostly friend into showing himself. “I know you are right here.”</p><p>“Alexander?” Lafayette tries to regain his attention, his tone worried.</p><p>“I saw you move the curtain, Laurens,” the other man continues, becoming slightly concerned himself, although for different reasons. “Do you not want to greet our dear Marquis?”</p><p>“<em> Mon ami </em>–”</p><p>“Just you wait, Gilbert,” Alexander tells him without taking his eyes off the spot where John must be. “He is only acting coy. Is that not so, John?”</p><p>“<em> Hamilton! </em>”</p><p>Alexander startles at the Marquis’ loud, alarmed voice, spinning around to face him. His expression is one of horror, his eyes once again shining. </p><p>And yet, John is nowhere to be seen, leaving Alexander to realize that the look on Lafayette’s visage is directed at him.</p><p>“I–” he tries to explain, but is cut off.</p><p>“<em>Qu’est-ce qu’il se passe ici?!</em>” the usually poised Marquis demands to know, his voice pitched in agitation. “<em>Pourquoi</em>– Why are you talking to nothing? You frighten me, my friend!”</p><p>Upon consideration, Alexander understands how untactfully he has approached the situation. He must surely seem unhinged, calling out the name of their deceased friend into the air. He scolds himself for mishandling what he foolishly thought to be a trouble-free reunion.</p><p>“I apologize, <em> mon ami </em>,” he says softly, approaching him. It does not escape his notice how Lafayette tenses slightly. “I should not have attempted to reintroduce you this way. But I assure you, Laurens will show, for he is only teasing.”</p><p>Lafayette’s eyes briefly flicker around the room before meeting his. “<em> Mon petit lion </em>,” he whispers gently. “There is no one here. Laurens is–”</p><p>“–with us in this room,” Alexander finishes. “His spirit has returned to me many months ago, Gilbert. He is the one to have brought joy back into my life.”</p><p>There is a long pause, until finally Lafayette’s features soften into sorrowful understanding. </p><p>“Oh, Alexander…” he breathes out, reaching to hold his hand. “<em> Je suis désolé </em>.”</p><p>It is Alexander’s turn to frown. “You do not believe me, do you,” he deadpans.</p><p>Lafayette sighs. “I believe that you believe he is here,” he says. “He is in our hearts, yes, and in yours most of all.”</p><p>Alexander reddens in indignation. “For Christ’s sake,” he snaps, pulling his hand away and turning back towards the window. “At least move something, John! You have done so everyday for the last six months!”</p><p>“<em> Mon ami </em>,” the Marquis’s voice cracks. “Please…” </p><p>The tremble in the Frenchman’s plea instantly prompts Alexander to give up his endeavor to console his friend. He pulls out a handkerchief when he notices with guilt the single tear rolling down the Marquis’ cheek, handing it to him.</p><p>“I must truly be a most abhorrent friend for causing you such distress,” he says while Lafayette wipes away the proof of his statement. “Particularly when you have traveled so far to ensure my well-being.”</p><p>Lafayette shakes his head. “It is only that–” He sniffles. “I cannot bear to see you like this, your <em> magnifique </em> mind invaded by such delusions. My heart breaks.”</p><p>“I am sorry, Gilbert,” Alexander says. “I should not have…– I hope you can forgive me for my insensitivity.” </p><p>For the third time today, Alexander finds himself in the Frenchman’s arms, easily returning the embrace.</p><p>“I will forgive on one condition,” Lafayette starts. “Allow me to spend the remainder of my time in this city here in your home, at your side.”</p><p>Alexander considers the other man’s demand despite knowing full well he cannot refuse his friend anything, a sentiment that he knows is shared vice-versa.</p><p>“Of course, <em> mon ami </em>,” he answers softly, relieved that his dear Marquis does not wish to exclude him from his life for his display of what must be perceived as insanity. “It would be my pleasure and greatest honor.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“What the hell was that?!” Alexander exclaims as he nearly breaks down the door of his study from the force with which he opens it.</p><p>“Has the Marquis gone?” John asks from where he has been picking up the discarded books to stow them back into the shelf.</p><p>“He has gone to fetch his things,” he answers dismissively. “Now will you tell me why you have decided to make me appear unhinged in front of our friend?”</p><p>“I would not have had to, had you only sought my counsel first before making such a foolish decision,” John responds curtly.</p><p>“I do not understand you, Laurens,” Alexander sighs, suddenly feeling drained. “You have spent so much time and effort into making yourself visible and tangible for me, but you refused to do so for the Marquis?”</p><p>John steps closer to take his hand. Unlike the Marquis’, it is still not warm, but nor is it cold. “You yourself were quite terrified of me initially, as I am certain you recall,” he says. “But your heart recognized the truth, as I knew it would.”</p><p>Alexander cannot help but smile softly at John’s words. “That is because you know me better than anyone else, Jack.”</p><p>“Exactly,” John emphasises. “We know each other’s heart and soul, and despite the undeniable purity of the Marquis’, I cannot take such a risk.”</p><p>“What risk?” Alexander counters. “He will have a fright, certainly, but what other risk could there be?”</p><p>“I am dead, Alexander,” John reminds him, the words squeezing his heart painfully. “Rationally, not all will take the news of the undead with grace and acceptance.”</p><p>“I did, eventually,” Alexander states.</p><p>John offers him a fond smirk, raising the other man’s hand to his lips. “Love makes us irrational.” He kisses Alexander’s knuckles.</p><p>Alexander huffs amusedly, a blush nonetheless coloring his cheeks. “You have missed your calling as a romantic philosopher, my dear,” he jokes while noting that John’s lips seem slightly warmer today.</p><p>“My true calling would have doubtlessly placed me by your side,” John quips back, his tone light but sincere.</p><p>A quiet moment passes between them, during which Alexander manages to fully let his anger and frustration vanish into thin air.</p><p>“Do you truly believe our friend would not take kindly to your return?” he then asks.</p><p>John sighs. “I wish I could say with certainty that he would be as understanding as you have been, but I cannot help but fear that somehow it will result in the end of what we have rebuilt together.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“He could run to the nearest church, fetch a priest, and have me exorcised,” John deadpans.</p><p>Alexander barks out a laugh at the humorous suggestion, only to quieten when he realizes that John’s expression is far from amused, but worried instead.</p><p>“You are serious?” he asks, incredulous. “John, that is absurd.”</p><p>“Is it?” John asks. “We once thought the very existence of beings like me to be absurd, and yet here I am.”</p><p>“I would not let anything happen to you, Jack,” Alexander declares whole-heartedly.</p><p>“It is not for myself that I worry, but for you, my dear boy,” John responds adamantly. “I would be powerless to stop it should anyone drag you away to a sanctuary where they will judge you to be possessed by the Devil or Lord knows what else.”</p><p>“How is having the Marquis believe me to be insane instead any better?” he counters, wishing to laugh at this whole ironically unhinged situation. “He could have me all the more easily dragged to a madhouse!”</p><p>“He will not, of that I am certain,” John declares instantly. “He considers you family, Alexander, he always has, which is why I made the decision to remain invisible.”</p><p>“Would he not wish to see me ‘cured’ then, on the grounds of such a friendship?”</p><p>John shakes his head. “No more than he would wish to see you cured of the affections you held for me during the war,” he says. “You see, I suspect he had known about our connection long before you and I ever did. Therefore, he would understand and accept such a display of grief, but not the presence of a spirit.”</p><p>For all the trust and close camaraderie he feels for Lafayette, Alexander cannot deny that John makes a reasonable point. He takes a slow, deep breath as he ponders over Lafayette’s imminent stay at his house for an unknown period of time.</p><p>“Alright then,” he concedes. “I will not mention you again, but I suggest we take the opportunity to observe him and possibly give him the benefit of the doubt.”</p><p>John considers the idea, clearly already swayed by the hopeful look on his lover’s face. “Agreed,” he says. “However, you do realize I will need to remain unseen around him.”</p><p>Alexander sighs regretfully, bowing his head tiredly. “Indeed.”</p><p>John hooks a finger under Alexander’s chin to gently tilt his head back up. He smiles. “Do not fret, my dear boy. I will let you know where I am,” he promises, then smirks. “And we still have the nights to ourselves, do we not?”</p><p>Alexander blushes, feeling a familiar tingle below his navel. </p><p>“You are a true scoundrel, Sir.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> February 22</em><em><sup>nd</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>Ten days pass without any more mention of the existence of spirits, a fact for which Lafayette seems relieved. The Frenchman makes sure to remain close to Alexander most of the time they are in the house together.</p><p>Although on the day he meets Mrs Kettler, even Alexander encounters some level of difficulty in putting a stop to the unabashed flirting. Mrs Kettler, however, does not seem to mind so much, as though entertaining a clumsy child.</p><p>When Alexander goes out to work, Lafayette either accompanies him, steps out as well to meet with other acquaintances –discreetly so, as he does not yet wish to let the people of America know he has arrived earlier than planned–, or remains quietly in the house.</p><p>The latter pastime, Alexander discovers, greatly amuses John. Indeed, the spirit has occasionally taken to playfully displacing Lafayette’s belongings, just as he had done with Alexander’s, although this time around he is fully in control of his mind and thoughts.</p><p>While Alexander scolds him for it, they both know he is just as entertained.</p><p>John tells him how he has also found himself intrigued by Lafayette’s behavior when Alexander is gone; he is told that the young Marquis will often peruse around the house, as though looking for something. While initially confused by this, they had eventually understood from the reported looks of relief of coming up empty-handed that Lafayette had simply been looking for any potential signs that could indicate a danger to his host.</p><p>As for the nights where he and John are finally allowed some privacy, needless to say they are most certainly satisfying; it is as though they are back in the garrett at Valley Forge, or in a tent in one of the numerous campsites they had slept in, where they must be silent.</p><p>The guest room in which Lafayette sleeps is, after all, adjacent to theirs.</p><p>It somehow adds to the thrill, despite knowing that John could turn himself invisible should Lafayette burst into the room for some reason. Alexander is indeed quite responsive when being told to keep quiet, all the more when John must place a hand –visible or not– over his mouth to make him so.</p><p>On one particular evening, when Alexander had remained in the parlor with Lafayette past midnight to finish listening to one of his many humorous adventures in France, John had become impatient. Still unseen by the human eye, he had come to stand behind Alexander’s chair, had kneeled, and had wrapped an arm around Alexander’s chest to hold him there before beginning to tease him in his most sensitive spot.</p><p>Not once had Alexander made a sound nor a movement of protest –the very opposite, in fact, judging by his discreet but eager clenches–, yet had eventually excused himself to avoid an embarrassing display of his peaked arousal. </p><p>John had been more than happy to bring him relief in the privacy of their bed.</p><p>Overall, Lafayette has shown nothing but good intentions towards Alexander, as expected, and in accordance with John’s judgement, has not once hinted at calling for any doctor of any kind. Instead, he and Alexander trade stories of the war, of their friends, and of John himself.</p><p>Alexander had not realized how much he had missed his French friend until he had seen him on his doorstep again, and had found himself feeling slightly guilty for not keeping up regular correspondances. Lafayette’s entire being is a thing of wonder, and he is not the smallest bit shocked to know that he is loved by so many.</p><p>He can only count himself so fortunate to have this love returned this abundantly.</p><p>Thus, John and Alexander eventually agree to show Lafayette the proof of the spirit’s existence.</p><p>In retrospect, they ought to have had the Marquis sit down first.</p><p>It happens in morning, just as Lafayette descends the stairs to head into the kitchen where Alexander has already prepared coffee –a special harvest from France that Lafayette had gifted to Alexander upon return to the house with all his belongings.</p><p>Alexander turns to greet the late riser. While Alexander tends to rise with the sun, Lafayette is the complete opposite. He blames it on the long trip overseas, and whether it is true or not, every morning has so far found the Marquis barely coherent, much to the two other men’s secret amusement. </p><p>“<em> Bonjour, mon ami, </em>” Alexander says jovially, and then notices John standing at the other end of the counter.</p><p>“‘ow d’you ‘ave dis much <em> énergie? </em>” Lafayette mutters, his accent almost too thick to understand. While he is dressed and seemingly ready to start the day, his auburn hair remains has been tied into a low queue rather than his usual braid, and his eyes remain half-lidded with sleep –all firm indicators of his semi-consciousness.</p><p>“Some coffee will surely help with that,” John says casually, and awaits the jump.</p><p>Astonishingly, Lafayette grunts and passes right by him.</p><p>“<em> Certainement </em>,” he answers with a yawn, accepting an apple from Alexander and heading for the pot of coffee. “But I need a full bat’tub of it, wit’–” </p><p>He suddenly falls silent.</p><p>From his position, Alexander can see the exact moment realization dawns on the Marquis. He holds his breath as Lafayette slowly turns back around, briefly meeting Alexander’s eyes with his own wide ones.</p><p>He faces John, who still stands fourteen feet away, his body tense and his soft, royal features rigid as stone.</p><p>“<em> Bonjour, </em>Marquis,” John says with a small smile.</p><p>“<em>Nom de Dieu</em>–<em>!!</em>” Lafayette shouts in a high squeak as he jumps back, his feet catching on one of the counter chairs, effectively causing his graceless tumble.</p><p>Alexander immediately moves to help him, but unfortunately, the consequences of John’s reveal do not stop there: In his fright, Lafayette has dropped his apple. In his haste, Alexander does not see the rolling fruit on the floor, and therefore his right foot slips over it. Reflexively, he tries to grab onto the counter, only to grasp the basket in which the other apples are piled, resulting in many fruits flying through the air and knocking not only a vase, a cup, and a pan onto the floor, but also all three men on their heads.</p><p>When the loud commotion comes to a standstill, Lafayette swallows audibly.</p><p>“–<em> de putain de bordel de merde… </em>”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A couple hours and half a bottle of Madeira later, Lafayette is slumped on the floorboards of the porch, leaning against the chair in which Alexander sits, receiving a soothing massage to his scalp, while John stands at a safer distance.</p><p>Both Alexander and John have told their side of the story, and have readily answered all of Lafayette’s erratic questions, until the young Marquis’ voice had descended back into a less hysterical pitch.</p><p>“<em> C’est de la folie pure </em>,” Lafayette breathes out, properly exhausted.</p><p>“But not a malicious one,” Alexander comments gently, shooting John a loving look, instantly reciprocated.</p><p>Lafayette tilts his head up to watch the exchange, and sighs. “<em> Oui </em>, I begin to see,” he says softly, briefly glancing at John before returning his attention to Alexander. “My friend, I must apologize.”</p><p>“Whatever for?” Alexander asks, surprised.</p><p>“I have shamefully insulted you upon <em> mon arrivée </em>,” he replies. “I did not believe you when you were telling the truth.”</p><p>Alexander chuckles good-heartedly, tugging gently at the auburn hair under his fingers. “Think nothing of it, <em> mon ami </em>. I had asked you to take too great a leap of faith, after all.”</p><p>In truth, Alexander is nearly overwhelmed with sheer relief at the absolute certainty that if Lafayette can see John as well, then there can no longer be even a single ounce of doubt left to implicitly nudge at his fears.</p><p>Lafayette smiles at him, then looks over at John, who fidgets with his cuffs nervously, letting a silence settle.</p><p>After a minute or so, his eyes begin to water and he offers the spirit a fond grin. </p><p>“I am <em> incroyablement </em>joyous to see you again, John Laurens,” he declares, his voice on the verge of breaking with the onslaught of emotions. “It is truly a mercy to know you are not gone.”</p><p>He gestures for the spirit to come closer, extending one hand to him while taking one of Alexander’s in the other. He hesitantly closes his hand around John’s, flinching slightly from the shock of it.</p><p>“Your foolishness has torn a piece of my heart and shattered Alexander’s,” Lafayette tells him, suddenly more serious.</p><p>“I know,” John retorts regretfully.</p><p>“But I understand now that your <em> dévotion </em> has rebuilt his,” the Marquis continues, offering his returned friend a small smile. “I can only hope that you will restore mine <em> aussi </em>.”</p><p>He gently pulls John down to sit next to him, and Alexander is once again awed by the Frenchman’s brilliant heart. It had taken him weeks if not more to be this comfortable around John and the idea of life after death. And yet here is Lafayette, doing the same in only a few hours.</p><p>Although, given the Marquis’ past actions in and out of the war, perhaps it is only logical that his mind is set in this way, so open to life’s unexpected turns.</p><p>“Thank you, Marquis,” John says earnestly. “I give you my word that I will accomplish my best.”</p><p>“<em> Très bien </em> ,” Lafayette says softly, his eyes fluttering with the need to rest after this life-altering experience. “ <em> Et appelle-moi ‘Gilbert’... ou ‘Lafayette’... ou n’importe quoi... </em>”</p><p>John and Alexander keep quiet while the Marquis descends into a light sleep, knowing he has most definitely earned it, and that he will surely rouse with more questions for them.</p><p>Barely a minute later, however, Lafayette grunts, his eyes still closed. “Are you the one to blame for my belongings disappearing, John Laurens?”</p><p>The two other men look at each other and promptly burst into a fit of laughter.</p><p>“<em> Bande d’imbéciles </em>,” the Frenchman mutters fondly, and slips into a restful nap.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> February 23</em><em><sup>rd</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>As predicted, Lafayette had risen from his nap with an understandably long set of new questions for them, followed by experiments with John’s tangible and intangible forms, all of which had lasted well into the night.</p><p>The next morning, Lafayette pauses for only a moment at the sight of John before resuming his usual sleepful route to the coffee pot, which Alexander and John take to be a promising sign.</p><p>All throughout the day and in between more questions, however, Lafayette continuously mutters to himself about something he has forgotten, yet he knows not what, and eventually dismisses it as unimportant.</p><p>However, much later in the night, Lafayette suddenly bursts into their bedroom, uninvited and wearing the oddest nightgown while loudly proclaiming some crazed, half-asleep nonsense about remembering what it was he had forgotten. </p><p>Unfortunately for all three men present, Alexander and John had been enjoying themselves thoroughly, therefore prompting them all to yelp, squeak, and shout simultaneously.</p><p>After an awkward apology from a red-nosed Lafayette –caused by his own too quick slamming of the door–, the Marquis informs them that they should be expecting a guest very soon.</p><p>It would seem that George Washington, former Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, is on route to the Hamilton-Laurens household.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> February 24</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>“I have found it!” the Marquis shouts the morning after his ominous declaration of Washington’s upcoming visit. He runs down the stairs excitedly, tempting Fate with his speed. “John Laurens, I <em> know </em> you are the culprit for the <em> déplacement </em> of the <em> Général </em>’s letter!”</p><p>John, who sits at the living room table, nudges Alexander from his adjacent seat. The poor man has been slumped on the table since being told that <em> no </em> , last night had not been a nightmare, and that <em> yes </em>, George Washington should be arriving any day now.</p><p>“Why would you invite him?” Alexander groans. “Without my consent, nonetheless!”</p><p>“We have corresponded many times, often to discuss our concern of you,” the Frenchman explains unapologetically. “And decided that he must come speak to you as well.”</p><p>“Well as you can see,” Alexander huffs. “There had been no need for concern.”</p><p>“I did not know that until <em> avant-hier! </em>”</p><p>“And what does this letter say about Washington’s itinerary?” John asks, quietly amused by Alexander’s reluctance to admit that he appreciates the General’s concern.</p><p>“It reads,” Lafayette relays. “‘<em> I planned to depart Mount Vernon on the twenty-third </em>–’”</p><p>“Oh, thank <em> God! </em>” Alexander exclaims, shooting upright in his chair. “That means there is still time to–”</p><p>“‘–<em> but will instead make haste three days ahead of schedule </em> ,’” the Frenchman continues smugly. “‘ <em> For indeed, I would greatly rejoice in </em>–’”</p><p>Lafayette abruptly stops, clearing his throat and quickly tucking the letter away. </p><p>Alexander stares at him for a second, and lets his head slam back down on the table with a long-suffering groan.</p><p>“You, my friend,” John tells Lafayette with a barely concealed grin. “Are an absolute menace.”</p><p>“And <em> you </em>are a poltergeist,” the Marquis shoots back, causing the both of them to laugh.</p><p>“Does no one see the problem here?!” Alexander shouts, his voice muffled by his arms, before sighing and straightening in his seat. “Washington cannot know about you, Laurens!”</p><p>“<em> Pourquoi pas? </em>” Lafayette asks. “You have told me, and I am here still.”</p><p>“But you are different, Gilbert,” Alexander says exasperatedly. “You are young and open-minded, and <em> still </em> you screamed louder than a banshee when faced with our close friend.”</p><p>“I do <em> not </em>sound like a banshee–” </p><p>“I believe I see Alexander’s point,” John pipes in, prompting a smug sound from Alexander. “Washington is known to be rather religious, is he not? He holds his values and beliefs to heart.”</p><p>“Furthermore,” Alexander joins in. “I would prefer not to be the one to send the Old Fox into his grave, and imagine neither would you, Marquis.”</p><p>“<em> Certainement pas! </em>” he gasps, appalled. </p><p>“We are in agreement, then?” John asks them, sighing with what sounds like regret. “I am to hide from Washington, and no one mentions me to him.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Alexander says readily. </p><p>For all his eagerness to have Lafayette learn of John’s return, he most definitely does not dare to assume Washington’s potentially catastrophic reaction when confronted with the spirit of one of his former aides, especially one for whom he had held a special affection and admiration, which undeniably ran both ways; John had nearly worshipped the ground upon which Washington walked –thankfully with graceful dignity, unlike many other awed soldiers.</p><p>“Gilbert?” the freckled man prompts, becoming suspiciously when he realizes that the Marquis has gone eerily quiet. “Do you agree?”</p><p>Lafayette shifts on his feet, biting his lip and looking overall very uncomfortable. “I… I cannot lie to the <em> Général </em>,” he says truthfully. “I refuse him nothing, much less the truth.”</p><p>John snorts for one reason or the other which Alexander does not understand, and therefore ignores.</p><p>“You would not be refusing him the truth unless he asked it of you,” he counters, and watches with bated breath as the Frenchman mulls over his words.</p><p>Finally, Lafayette’s shoulders slump. “You have a tongue of silver, my friend,” he sighs. “I will follow your decision, but I will not enjoy it.”</p><p>“Perfect!” Alexander proclaims, standing up. “Now, how about some scotch to make us forget about the upcoming disaster?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The three men sit in the parlor in comfortable silence, two of them slightly tipsy while the third one ponders over whether or not to take the bottle away from them.</p><p>“I have a new question,” Lafayette pipes up, his cheeks red from consumption. “How exactly do you fornica–”</p><p>“<em> Marquis! </em>”</p><p>“Christ…”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> February 25</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>Alexander sends Mrs Kettler out on an errand as soon as she arrives that morning, accompanied by Lafayette who has been instructed to walk her home afterwards and bring back the grocery basket himself. Meanwhile, John and Alexander tidy up the house while the latter mutters curses under his breath.</p><p>“Does it truly displease you so,” John asks. “To see Washington again?”</p><p>“Mhm?” Alexander turns from where he had been rearranging the pillows in the living room. “No, I suppose not.”</p><p>“Then why are you so tense?” John pushes, walking up behind Alexander and wrapping his arms around him. “I am certain he will be immensely pleased to see you.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” the redhead concedes. “Although I do tend to occasionally ignite his temper.”</p><p>“Purely by accident, I presume,” John quips, gently rocking them side to side.</p><p>“Of course,” Alexander replies with mock-seriousness, causing them both to laugh.</p><p>They continue their slow movements, simply enjoying the peaceful moment.</p><p>“Do you think he knew about us?” Alexander asks then, both curious and apprehensive. “Or suspected?”</p><p>“I do not know,” John answers honestly. “Although if he did, I am sure he has yet to disavow you, nor do I believe he ever will.”</p><p>“I am not his son,” Alexander mutters half-heartedly. “And whatever compels you to make this judgement?”</p><p>John’s tone takes a knowing lilt. “I would advise you to keep a close eye on the exact moment he greets both you and the Marquis.”</p><p>Alexander huffs amusedly. “If that is a challenge, then I will take it, Sir.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It is late into the afternoon, the sun only just beginning its descent, when the sound of a heavy coach rolling into Walnut Street catches the attention of the three men in the Hamilton-Laurens household. </p><p>Lafayette jumps to his feet and runs to the nearest street-side window to peer outside. His face breaks into a grin.</p><p>“It is him!” he exclaims ecstatically. “I recognize the arms of coat!”</p><p> Before either Alexander or John can correct his English, Lafayette is already sprinting for the front door.</p><p>“Marquis, wait!” John calls. “You are not wearing any shoes!”</p><p>Lafayette rushes back into the living room with a colorful curse, nearly throwing himself at his shoes, scrambling to put them on.</p><p>Meanwhile, Alexander calmly marches to the door, giving John a small, regretful smile. “Time to act the part,” he tells him.</p><p>John nods, and promptly disappears from sight. Alexander feels a gentle brush of air on his cheeks, and knows that John intends to stand at his side.</p><p>A knock that could somehow only belong to one man resounds in the entrance hallway. From the living room, Lafayette squeaks.</p><p>Alexander takes a deep breath, and opens the door.</p><p>George Washington stands in front of him, as tall and imposing as he would be in his army uniform. The younger man immediately stands straighter without a second thought.</p><p>“General Washington, Sir,” Alexander greets neutrally, extending his hand for the other man to shake. “Welcome back to Philadelphia.”</p><p>“You may drop the title, Hamilton, as I have resigned my commission as General,” Washington says as he appropriately shakes the proffered hand, his voice still as low and naturally sultry as Alexander remembers it to have been. “I hope to find you well.”</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Alexander responds. “I dare say the civilian life seems to have agreed with you.”</p><p>“Indeed, you dare.” </p><p>Washington’s lips then tug into a fond smile, and Alexander cannot help but mirror it. “I have missed you, my boy.”</p><p>Unable to answer past the unexpected lump in his throat, Alexander shows no resistance when Washington pulls him into an affectionate embrace. </p><p>Alexander is the one to break it as he hears the stumbling footsteps of an eager Frenchman charging towards them. He gracefully steps aside, allowing Lafayette to throw himself into Washington’s arms, his shoes nowhere to be seen.</p><p>“<em> George! </em>”</p><p>He watches their reunion both fondly, and carefully, as John had advised him to do: Lafayette bestows the tradition <em> bise fran </em>– no, wait, there are three pecks this time. Washington, once stiff as a board when put in this situation, now flawlessly reciprocates without discomfort. </p><p>Lafayette is unsurprisingly grinning at the older man, while Washington’s smile is contained, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Although… There <em> is </em>something there. But what?</p><p>“<em> Look at his eyes </em>,” John whispers in his ear.</p><p>Alexander does, and, after a few seconds of observation, nearly swallows his tongue.</p><p>Suddenly, he notices every single detail, none of them new, which he had unbelievably been blind to for <em> years </em>.</p><p>For the next three hours, while the three men are sipping on wine and eating various hors-d’oeuvres –delicately prepared by their resident Frenchman– in the parlor, Alexander is mostly and uncharacteristically silent, too busy seeing what he is already beginning to regret knowing.</p><p>Eventually, John’s fingers brush the back of his neck soothingly, prompting him to finally join the conversation while attempting to turn a blind eye to the little things he now sees everywhere.</p><p>“<em> Mon Général </em> ,” Lafayette says when the sun has fully set, and somehow, Alexander is convinced that not even Washington can make the Frenchman abandon the great man’s title. “You must be tired after such a long journey, <em> oui? </em>”</p><p>“That I am, my dear Marquis,” Washington answers, and <em> how </em> had Alexander never realized what had been happening right under his nose?!</p><p>“Then please, allow me to show you to your room,” the Frenchman offers, standing up.</p><p>It takes Alexander a couple more seconds to realize exactly what Lafayette has said. </p><p>He shoots off a carefully neutral-toned question in French, although the words are anything but. Lafayette answers in the same manner, keeping everything from the tone of his voice to the expression on his visage controlled. To any non-French speaker, such as Washington, the redhead and the young nobleman seem to be engaged in a casual conversation.</p><p>To any French-speaker, however, including John, they are furiously arguing.</p><p>In the end, as not to appear too rude in front of the former Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, Alexander gives in, knowing it is already a lost battle –at least until Lafayette dares to show his face back down again.</p><p>“Goodnight, Sir,” Alexander bids to him.</p><p>“Goodnight, son.”</p><p>If nothing else, Alexander’s lack of automatic response to the familial sobriquet undeniably indicates his exhaustion.</p><p>John reappears once their two guests have gone, standing right next to Alexander.</p><p>“I did not even notice his traveling cases,” Alexander says, still dazed by this evening’s turn of events. “How did I not foresee this?”</p><p>John chuckles. “In all fairness, you were somewhat preoccupied.”</p><p>Alexander suddenly grimaces at the reminder. “Dear Lord,” he gasps. “Are they really–?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“But he was–”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“And they are–”</p><p>“Quite so.”</p><p>“<em> Christ </em>,” Alexander groans. “Do you think whale oil is enough to blind myself?”</p><p>“I rather not see you try,” John responds, patting Alexander’s shoulder in support. “Come now, it will do you good to retire early.”</p><p>John leads Alexander up the stairs, careful not to be caught by the Virginian veteran. Once safely in their room, they keep their voices low in case the walls prove to be too thin despite Washington’s justifiable exhaustion.</p><p>“He knew this house had the one guestroom,” Alexander grumbles. “He would have had plenty of time to send a missive to Washington to tell him to seek other living arrangements.”</p><p>“Our dear Marquis is quite the little devil when he wishes to be,” John comments fondly. “Using the convenient ‘one bed’ situation to obtain what he wants. Just like a certain someone I know.”</p><p>Alexander shoots him a glare. “We were at war and lacking supplies, including beds and blankets,” he retorts indignantly, preparing himself for bed to hide his blush. “Would you have rather we freeze to death?”</p><p>“Of course not,” John replies with a smug grin. “Although I must thank you, for you surely went above and beyond in your duties as a bedmate.”</p><p>Alexander huffs, a smirk forming in response. “Mhm,” he hums with mock-nonchalance. “Meade said so as well.”</p><p>A beat of silence.</p><p>“<em> I beg your pardon? </em>”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Hours later when the moon is high up in the night sky, Alexander remains wide awake on his back, John lying next to him on the bed, both pairs of eyes staring emptily at the ceiling.</p><p>“I will certainly feel well-rested come morning,” Alexander hisses sarcastically. “I am highly tempted to try my hand at sleeping under the stars.”</p><p>“In February?” John asks, sounding just as exasperated and uncomfortable as his lover. “You would be frost-bitten.”</p><p>“Perhaps my ears will mercifully fall off,” Alexander shoots back.</p><p>“Ah,” the blond concedes. “I see your point.”</p><p>They unfortunately fall silent once more, thus allowing the lewd noises from the guest room to penetrate their bedroom once again. </p><p>The night had begun as any other, with John’s delicious petting rendering Alexander boneless, while the freckled man had bravely muffled his own sounds of pleasure to keep from alerting their guests next door.</p><p>It seems, however, that such a common decency had not been returned, dragging Alexander from sleep with a pinched expression to match the spirit’s.</p><p>And so, they remain awake, unwillingly learning new combinations of French curses.</p><p>“You know,” John says after a particularly memorable sound carves itself into their minds for the unfortunate foreseeable future. “Your house reminds me of the one I used to live in during my time in Geneva.”</p><p>“How so?” Alexander asks tonelessly.</p><p>And then, the sounds mercifully stop.</p><p>John pauses. “There is not one sinner in sight.”</p><p>Slowly, the two men turn their heads to look at the other blankly.</p><p>In the guestroom, a surprised Frenchman wonders what could possibly be so funny at this hour, while a former General easily ignores it, already fast asleep.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> February 26</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>Alexander is more than happy to avoid eye contact with his former General and the shameless Marquis, all the more by putting at least five miles between them all day, as the man rides to the center of the city to meet with close acquaintances of his own, while Alexander runs a private errand.</p><p>Meanwhile, John pleads with the robin he had cajoled into posing for a sketch on the porch to stop pecking at the carpet threads and leave the house.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> February 29</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>If anything, Alexander is rather satisfied with the way John, the Marquis, and himself have handled the situation so far. Washington is set to leave the next day, along with the Marquis, both traveling south to Mount Vernon.</p><p>Mrs Washington will be thrilled to see the Frenchman again. Alexander tries not to remember her knowing looks when speaking to Lafayette during her visit at Valley Forge –he has already received enough shock to last a lifetime.</p><p>Both Alexander and John wonder if Lafayette will ever convince Washington to free his slaves, a surprisingly civil argument that has already arisen often during their conversations. </p><p>John, albeit dismayed at being unable to participate in such a debate, had nevertheless been immensely proud the first time Alexander had given his passionate and unhindered piece of mind on the subject, standing his ground against a man he both respects and finds intimidating.</p><p>A few incidents aside –such as John accidentally knocking over a candle while straightening a painting on the wall and quickly stomping on it to extinguish it, all the while Alexander, Lafayette, and Washington had been sitting at the dinner table. The small commotion had prompted the former General to begin turning in his chair to look for the source of the noise. Fortunately, Lafayette had quickly grabbed his attention with a question about the next season’s crops in Virginia, and the crisis had been averted.</p><p>Much to Alexander’s mounting chagrin, however, John had later informed him that Washington’s attention had not been the only thing the Marquis had grabbed to distract him.</p><p>Overall, the freckled man remains proud of the three of them –especially the Marquis– for keeping the secret of John’s semi-resurrection behind closed doors.</p><p>That is, until they collectively but accidentally break the doors’ hinges.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As the clock strikes noon, the three men can be found sitting in the living room, discussing future plans and addressing the rumors surrounding the need for new leadership in Congress.</p><p>John, momentarily losing interest in a conversation in which he can not even contribute past a pinch to Alexander’s thigh when needed, wishes to quietly finish sketching the scene from a hidden corner, where he has done so multiple times throughout multiple discussions. </p><p>He sets to work, knowing that Alexander will surely be pleased by this surprise.</p><p>The natural light shines in their favor, too.</p><p>Not long after he has resumed his slow strokes of the pencil, John finds that he is in need of a thinner one. Therefore, he sets down his material and walks past the trio towards the bookshelf where he knows he has last seen said-pencil. </p><p>Mentally patting himself on the back for his accurate memory, he picks it up and heads back to his spot.</p><p>Halfway there however, he quickly notices that the room has fallen silent, and stops in his tracks, redirecting his gaze towards the three men.</p><p>They are all staring at him. Or at least, in his direction, as John rapidly deduces from looking down at himself and seeing nothing but the feeling of his own limbs.</p><p>Nothing, except a pencil.</p><p>A pencil that, for all intents and purposes, appears to the common eye to be standing mid-air on its own.</p><p>He quickly drops it, even knowing it will do him no good now. In fact, if he could breathe, John would surely keep the air in his lungs for fear of making a single other movement.</p><p>Alexander, who had only been idly aware of John’s whereabouts until he had caught sight of the casually floating pencil behind Washington, had done his best to act unbothered.</p><p>He had failed miserably, considering he had stopped speaking mid-sentence for too long.</p><p>Lafayette, for his part, had directly stared at the ruinous scene, still unused to such casual displays of ghostly acts.</p><p>Eventually, Washington slowly turns back to look at Alexander, his eyes just slightly wider to indicate his rarely demonstrated astoundment.</p><p>“It would seem, Hamilton,” he starts with a surprisingly even tone. “That you are hosting a third guest.”</p><p>“Errr,” Alexander’s uncooperative mind provides.</p><p>Washington raises an unimpressed eyebrow at his response, before turning his gaze towards the Marquis, his eyes suddenly becoming concerned upon noticing the Frenchman’s wide eyes.</p><p>“Are you frightened, Gilbert?” he asks gently, already rising from his seat.</p><p>“Oh, <em> eh bien </em> ,” Lafayette stammers, eyes flickering to Alexander in silent questioning. “ <em> Non </em>, I fear him not.”</p><p>“Him?” Washington asks with a frown.</p><p>Alexander finally snaps out of his mindless daze, standing up decisively, followed by the Marquis.</p><p>“Alright then,” the redhead starts, rubbing the bridge of his nose in resigned exasperation. “You might as well show yourself, John.”</p><p>Washington’s eyes narrow at him before looking back at the spot where the pencil now lies on the carpeted floor, inhaling sharply as the unmistakable figure of John Laurens comes into sight.</p><p>“Laurens?” Washington calls out softly, his voice wavering almost imperceptibly. Lafayette, however, moves forward to brush his fingers on the older man’s wrist.</p><p>“General Washington, Sir,” John says with forced calm, unknowingly echoing Alexander’s own greeting of the man. After all, he had died a soldier.</p><p>“Is it really you, son?” Washington asks hesitantly, taking a cautious step closer, his posture tense.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” John answers.</p><p>Washington glances at the two other men in the room, silently asking for confirmation, and receiving two assuring nods in return. He takes another step forward, now standing at arm’s length from the spirit.</p><p>John extends his hand slowly, as not to startle the other man. “T’is an honor to see you again, Sir.”</p><p>Washington stares at the proffered hand for a few seconds, before carefully grasping it with his own, and releasing the breath he had been holding as he squeezes it. His blue-grey eyes begin to shine, and suddenly John is pulled into an embrace by his former General.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Philadelphia </em> </p><p><em> March 1</em><em><sup>st</sup></em> <em> 1784 </em></p><p> </p><p>“I cannot say this visit has not been full of surprises,” Washington says to Alexander as they stand outside the front door, both the Marquis’ and the General’s traveling cases at their feet.</p><p>Lafayette and John remain inside, biding their own goodbyes.</p><p>“There is certainly no need to tell me twice, Sir,” Alexander replies with a hint of cynicism. Worriedly, he wonders how he has even managed to sleep at all these past few days, given the scarring imagery regularly coming from behind thin walls.</p><p>They watch as the coachmen walk up to them to take the cases, piling them carefully on the coach. </p><p>Both Lafayette and Washington have already assured him that this will certainly not be their last visit, especially now that they know who else lives in this house. Indeed, after a lengthy explanation with only a few queries from the General at the end of their tale –as opposed to the Marquis’ flurry of questions a few days past–, Washington had simply welcomed the situation, stating that he could never believe John’s spirit to be anything but a blessing from God Himself.</p><p>In hindsight, the three younger men should have expected nothing less from their former General, for they had always known the man to be reasonable and accepting –except in the case of one Charles Lee.</p><p>“Are you happy, Alexander?” Washington suddenly asks him, the question demanding complete honesty.</p><p>It only requires one thought, one name, to flash through Alexander’s mind to know the answer to this important query.</p><p>“I am, Sir.”</p><p>“Good,” Washington breathes just as the front door opens. </p><p>The Marquis struts out with a grin and suspiciously wet eyes, while John leans against the door frame, unable to step further out.</p><p>Or so the spirit thought, as the Marquis’ pocket watch slips from its chain, prompting John to reflexively step forward to catch it before it can hit the ground.</p><p>As the scene goes unnoticed, he quickly takes a step back, deciding to tell Alexander of this new development later in the day to keep the focus on their guests’ departure. He calls for Lafayette to come and retrieve his watch.</p><p>Meanwhile, Washington gathers Alexander into his arms, holding him tightly. With a silent sigh of contentment, Alexander returns the gesture.</p><p>“You deserve this happiness, son,” Washington tells him softly. “You both do.”</p><p>The rest of their adieus pass in a haze of ‘<em> je vous aime </em> ’,‘ <em> vous me manquerez </em> ’, and ‘ <em> mes charmants imbéciles </em>’ with Alexander feeling the weight in his pocket more acutely than he has in the last four days.</p><p>Given the cloudless weather and the melodious chirps of the early-Spring birds, the two residents of the Hamilton-Laurens household decide to spend a peaceful moment in the sun. They carry both porch chairs onto the grass, in which a few primroses are already beginning to bloom.</p><p>After some time spent in comfortable silence –although the same cannot be said for the inside of Alexander’s head–, the redhead finally gathers up the courage to speak up.</p><p>“Do you believe anyone should be able to marry whomever they wish?” he asks, hoping not to sound nervous.</p><p>John opens his eyes to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “That depends. I rather not see a man marry his horse.”</p><p>Despite wanting to laugh, Alexander keeps it together for fear of losing his nerve. “Seriously, Laurens.”</p><p>Sensing the demand for maturity, John sobers up. “Then yes,” he answers. “So long as no harm is done to either party, or anything of the sort.”</p><p>“And if one day the nation comes to its senses and abolishes slavery,” Alexander continues. “Would you support a White man marrying a Black woman, and vice-versa?”</p><p>“I would,” the blond answers without hesitation. “What has spurred this questioning, Alexander?”</p><p>“Answer me one more question and I will tell you,” the younger man hastens to say.</p><p>John’s eyes narrow slightly, but his lips tell of his fondness for Alexander’s typical insistence. “Alright.”</p><p>Alexander adjusts his light coat, feeling the corners of the content of his pocket presses against his leg.</p><p>“What of people like us?” he finally asks. “Two men? Or two women, as I suspect there to be as well.”</p><p>John’s lips twitch upwards. “Need you really ask?”</p><p>Alexander relaxes, a relieved chuckle escaping him. “No, I suppose I need not,” he concedes, and stands, offering his hand for John to take before pulling him up to his feet. “Although perhaps I ask the wrong question.”</p><p>His nervousness suddenly vanishes, leaving in its stead a peaceful feeling of ease and certainty. Reaching into his pocket, he fishes out a small wooden box and holds it up for John to see.</p><p>“Alexander…” John whispers, his blue eyes fixated on the box. “Is that…”</p><p>“I love you, Jack.” Alexander says, smiling softly. “And while I am aware that this has yet to have a place in a court of law, much less in a church,” he pauses to take a deep breath. “I would be honored to call you my husband, if you would have me.”</p><p>He opens the box, revealing two matching golden bands, sober in their appearance, and heavy in their meaning.</p><p>John can only stare at them, so Alexander quickly begins to explain himself. </p><p>“And I am also aware that it is traditional only for the wife to wear a ring,” he rambles sheepishly. “But I thought, well, perhaps we could wear them on the opposite hand, so only we would know without anyone asking–”</p><p>“Yes,” John finally answers, looking back up at his lover while the younger man takes a much-needed breath. “Yes, of course I would have you, I– God, Alexander, I love you as well, more than I could ever express enough.”</p><p>The redhead blinks, and grins fully until he knows his cheeks will be sore, his eyes filling with joyous tears to match John’s. He then carefully slides one ring on John’s right forefinger, after which John mirrors him.</p><p>“I suppose the question I should have asked was,” Alexander whispers lovingly. “Will you be with me always, Jack?”</p><p>“Have I somehow been unclear about it, my dear boy?” John asks teasingly, linking their hands together and hearing the soft <em> tic </em> to prove their private union.</p><p>Together, they slowly lean forward, tilting their heads slightly as their eyes flutter close. </p><p>“As clear as starlight,” Alexander answers with a smile, carefully standing up on the tip of his toes.</p><p>Years after their separation, the two men finally kiss again, both their hearts swelling up as John’s lips press warmly on Alexander’s. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>***</p><p>French Translations :</p><p>-[mon] petit lion : [my] little lion </p><p>-mon [cher] ami : my [dear] friend </p><p>-oui : yes </p><p>-touché : point made </p><p>-trois fois : three times </p><p>-Dieu merci : Thank God </p><p>-Je crois ne pas avoir entendu correctement : I think I have not heard correctly </p><p>-Qu’est-ce qu’il se passe ici : What is happening here </p><p>-pourquoi [pas] : why not </p><p>-Je suis désolé : I'm sorry </p><p>-magnifique : beautiful </p><p>-bonjour : good morning/hello </p><p>-énergie : energy </p><p>-certainement [pas] : certainly [not] </p><p>-[Nom de Dieu] de putain de bordel de merde : #$@&amp;%*!  %$*# &amp;!@ </p><p>-C’est de la folie pure : This is pure folly  </p><p>-mon arrivée : my arrival </p><p>-incroyablement : incredibly </p><p>-dévotion : devotion </p><p>-aussi : also </p><p>-très bien : very well </p><p>-Et appelle-moi ‘Gilbert’... ou ‘Lafayette’... ou n’importe quoi… : And call me ‘Gilbert’... or ‘Lafayette’... or whatever </p><p>-bande d’imbéciles : bunch of idiots </p><p>-déplacement : displacement </p><p>-avant-hier : day before yesterday </p><p>-eh bien : well </p><p>-non : no </p><p>-je vous aime : I love you (plural) </p><p>-vous me manquerez : I will miss you (plural) </p><p>***</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Voilà, my darling!</p>
<p>I hope you liked it! </p>
<p>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Epilogue</p>
<p>
  <em> And When our Children Tell our Story </em>
</p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Albany</em>
</p>
<p><em> June 10</em><em><sup>th</sup></em> <em> 1824 </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>June has always been a most pleasant month for Alexander; it is not yet too hot, yet far from cold. Nature continues to bloom under the generous sun without as much demand for rain, and the people are undeniably more amicable when the warm rays of sunlight grace their skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All is simply peaceful in June, at least in their little haven of a summer home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John whole-heartedly agrees, particularly regarding the renewed animal life around them, eager to sketch as many as he can, after which Alexander gladly provides the frames. Indeed, Alexander remains in awe of all of his pieces of art, all of which have either found their way onto the walls of this house and the one in Washington D.C, into their friends’ and family’s possessions –under the assumed name of ‘Jack Lawrence’, or, in the case of John’s more </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal</span>
  </em>
  <span> collection, in a treasured box in one of their bedroom drawers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander’s favorite piece hangs on the wall opposite their bed, made in seventeen eighty-five, depicting the two of them sitting on a bench side by side, hands held. How John had managed such a perfect rendition of them both –down to Alexander’s last freckle and his own sharp cheekbones– will never cease to amaze him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right next to it is a delicate glass frame in which is showcased the Aster flower that John had brought him in seventeen eighty-three.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Furthermore, they both find it easier to focus on their work here, in the quiet, away from the constant bustling of the city. In fact, they plan on turning their summer house here in upstate New York into their permanent home, when the time comes to officially retire –which, given the two men’s combined stubbornness, might not be for another decade or so. Even then, there are always projects to begin, to continue, and to finish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, on this beautiful afternoon, neither Alexander nor John are inclined to work as they sit on the porch swing, leaning on each other with their hands loosely linked as they gently swing back and forth while soaking up the sun. The garden around them is just as lively as it can be this time of year, although Alexander suspects its apogee to have been reached during the years when Washington would visit and tend to it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man, for all his prowess in battle and wisdom in politics, had an endearing preference and natural love for farming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think Washington’s spirit would return if I began to water the plants too much?” Alexander asks, breaking the comfortable silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s eyes flutter open, and raises an amused eyebrow. “While a haunting such as his would serve you right should you intentionally drown our greens,” he answers playfully. “I very much doubt the Old Fox would want to descend from his cloud for such a trivial matter, or any matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander hums, recalling not for the first time the conversation they had had with the Marquis over twenty years ago. “I used to often wonder about the reasoning behind your return, even years after,” he admits. “Until I attempted to console Gilbert after Washington’s passing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John squeezes his hand gently, silently offering his compassion as he always does when they talk about the man whom Alexander had, reluctantly at first, regarded as a father. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander returns the gesture, the sight of their rings reflecting the gleaming sunlight onto their age-worn skin like a balm to his faded grief. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Heartbroken as he was,” he continues. “He immediately dismissed the possibility of an eventual ghostly resurrection, stating without a doubt that our dear General had accomplished all he could here on this Earth, for he had long since found the meaning of his life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John hums. “I ought not be surprised by our wise Marquis, yet I continuously am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander chuckles. “I will be certain to inform him of that when he arrives,” he teases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John lightly shoves at his shoulder. “While we are on the subject,” he starts. “Have we gotten more news of his itinerary?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do not believe so,” Alexander responds. “However, I have yet to look into our letterbox today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“According to Frances’ letter from,” John hesitates. “When was it, Tuesday?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Monday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“From Monday, then,” he continues. “Georges has judged it wise to allow his father to rest after such a long voyage, particularly given his health and the seasickness.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander’s features turn darker with the reminder of the state of their dear friend’s health upon his release from his cruel emprisonnement. Luckily, with the combined minds of Washington, John, Alexander, and Angelica Schuyler, the arrangements for the Marquis’ freedom had been successful soon rather than later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nevertheless, during the two and a half years it had taken them to liberate their friend, his health, along with his wife Adrienne’s, had been severely affected. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John and Alexander had traveled to France after learning that the Marquis could not travel in his weakened condition, along with an extra passenger, much to Lafayette’s utter delight. He had not bothered to contain his tears of joy as he had lunged himself into Washington’s awaiting arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had given the Marquis and the General some time alone, while John had guided Alexander through the beautiful city of Geneva.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their next voyage to Europe less than half a decade later had been less pleasant, as they had come to tell the Frenchman about Washington’s passing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Lafayette had eventually physically recovered with time, his lungs never entirely did, and will doubtlessly remain fragile for the rest of his life. Adrienne, however, had succumbed twelve years later after years of bravely battling sickness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then we ought to expect him in a day or so,” Alexander muses, his features softening once more. “Unless his adoring crowd catches him on the way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They chuckle at the thought of Lafayette’s upcoming tour of the nation he fought to build alongside her citizens and in which he is consequently revered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How many </span>
  <em>
    <span>bises </span>
  </em>
  <span>do you think we will each receive upon our reunion?” John asks amusedly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Plenty,” Alexander answers without missing a beat. “Although you, my dear, shall have your cheeks reddened with more as soon as he notices your gift on his bedroom wall.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The blond blushes, the sight always a delight to the other man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe Washington knew I had put them to paper,” he says. “Gilbert, however, seemed completely oblivious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then he will indeed be most pleasantly surprised,” Alexander determines. “And I am certain you will be reminded of his gratitude for years to come.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They smile in anticipation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Our lives are bound to be less quiet with Gilbert’s imminent arrival,” John comments fondly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Certainly,” the redhead agrees. “And I must admit, I am incredibly relieved that he has finally accepted our offer to spend his golden years with us, as the longer he had taken to finish his projects in France, the more worried I became that he would never again be capable of traveling overseas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nods in understanding. “So am I,” he echoes, and smiles reassuringly. “However, there is no longer need for such concerns now, my dear. Although I cannot say the same for our wine cellar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander barks out a laugh. “Quite so!” he says enthusiastically. “Ah, that reminds me. Samuel has suggested taking care of acquiring the wine to celebrate young Eleanor’s engagement next week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Samuel Kettler, I assume?” John asks, and hums. “How thoughtful of him. You may tell your </span>
  <em>
    <span>protégé</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I recall one of her more recent letters mentioning a penchant for the Bourgogne wines.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Splendid,” Alexander squeezes his hand once more. “But my dear, I feel I must point out yet another striking resemblance between our youngest granddaughter and yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mhm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your taste in wine,” he says, and smirks. “Although that may be the only trait I cannot praise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John laughs, shaking his head in exasperation. “How will I ever live with this never-before-revealed knowledge that you judge my pallet so poorly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander grins, and leans over to kiss John’s cheek. “Do not fret so, Jack,” he chuckles. “For you still have your wits, your beauty, and that lovely </span>
  <em>
    <span>nose </span>
  </em>
  <span>of yours–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Alexander!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” John exclaims, barely containing his own chuckles. “I beg you to keep yourself contained when our friends and family arrive, good Sir!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Husband mine, must I remind you of Geneva?” Alexander snickers mischievously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John groans. “Will you </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> let this matter rest?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never,” Alexander quips. “In fact, I shall be sure to remind Monsieur Végobre in our next correspondence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John sighs in resignation. “Whoever dared to paint the Swiss as unbiased, clear-headed, and gentle people was a soulless liar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander laughs loudly, before simmering down to giggles in order to press a loving kiss to John’s lips. Despite his supposed-indignation, John does not hesitate to kiss him back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Speaking of clear-headed,” Alexander speaks up as he pulls back. “You never did finish telling me about your adventure in Illinois regarding what happened to that newly published book of our States laws I had hoped to receive upon your return.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, right you are,” John says, and clears his throat. “You see, on my out of that dreadful convention–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The one where you were chased out by slave-owners for your, shall we say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>passionate </span>
  </em>
  <span>approach?” Alexander asks with a barely restrained smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The very same,” the blond grimaces. “Regardless, as I made haste to avoid being trampled, a young boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen, although already taller than you–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go fu–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“–pulled me into a nearby alley to keep hidden while the swarm of angry men rushed by.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The slight against his forgotten, the redhead now raises his eyebrows, curious. “And who was this noble young man?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A self-taught scholar, not unlike yourself,” John tells him. “Sporting a similar precocious streak, as well, with quite an avid interest in poetry and the law, as I would soon learn.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An odd combination,” Alexander muses. “But do go on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I offered to give him a coin for his bravery, but the young boy declined,” John explains. “Instead, he requested that I tell him the happenings of this convention, as he had not been allowed to step into the building to see for himself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Precocious indeed,” the other man muses approvingly. “I assume you did?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” the blond man replies. “In fact, the sensitive lad made sure to find a bench in the shade for me to sit on before I could tire.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long could it have possibly taken you to recount your short-lived time among those unwavering politicians?” Alexander asks incredulously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Merely a few minutes.” John chuckles. “But this boy had a thirst for knowledge that carried the conversation for hours, and seemed highly interest in the topic of slavery and my abolitionist opinions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A future member of our cause, do you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should hope so, given his uncanny understanding of it, although he still has much to learn about the way of the law in order to rectify it,” John says wisely. “Which brings us to the reason why you are short of a book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexander’s lips twitch into a smile. “You gave him the book,” he deduces, to which John nods with an apologetic smile. “Then I cannot fault you for it, for it will surely serve his future better than mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is John’s turn to kiss him. “I had no doubt you would understand, my dear boy,” he says. “Perhaps one day, this boy, Abraham was his name, will rise up and accomplish things worth remembering, just as you have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A fine legacy it is, indeed,” Alexander agrees. “To be remembered.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your work will be remembered, Alexander Hamilton,” John tells him solemnly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Our</span>
  </em>
  <span> work,” the redhead corrects. “We changed the nation </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jack.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John breathes out a laugh, neither joyful nor humorless, simply accepting. He links their fingers together, their rings gleaming in the sun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I died in seventeen eighty-two, husband mine. And before you start,” he says, giving Alexander a fond look. “It has been a blessing to shed my name and to work alongside you without the fear of repercussion from those would have hindered me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“History will remember you, John Laurens,” Alexander says firmly. “Of that I have no doubt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John pulls Alexander closer to him, shifting to gather the other man in his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then may they remember </span>
  <em>
    <span>the both of us</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says, certain that regardless of their legacies, everything he truly needs to be happy is right here with him, from the first sight in the morning to the last thought at night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John has never been so sure of anything in his life, particularly as they nestle together, basking in the soothing rhythm of each other’s heartbeats.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Fin</p>
<p>
  <em> They’ll Tell the Story of Tonight</em>
</p>
<p> ***</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>***</p>
<p>French Translations :</p>
<p>-protégé = apprentice under someone’s wing</p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This has been a Revolutionary Junkies' - Valentine's Day Edition!!</p>
<p>https://discord.gg/fqaRbjNjr4</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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